


The Mitch Chronicles

by TheCookieOfDoom



Category: American Assassin (2017), Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Drabble Collection, M/M, Prompt Fill
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-26
Updated: 2020-08-14
Packaged: 2020-10-01 21:00:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 19
Words: 23,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20403412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheCookieOfDoom/pseuds/TheCookieOfDoom
Summary: A collection of all my Stitch (and possible later Pitch/Steteritch) short stories.





	1. Mitch/Stiles

**Author's Note:**

> It's about time I got around to putting this together. I'll post all of my tumblr prompt fills and drabbles into here, and who knows, is any of these are popular or inspiring enough, I may write them into full size fics! Always feel free to prompt me on tumblr or in the comments.
> 
> This chapter was inspired by that one heartbreaking scene with Stiles and his dad from season 2, at Lydia's party. You know the one. 
> 
> The general backstory is that Mitch is Damaged and works off steam in an underground fight club, and he meets Stiles who is a troubled teen with no sense of self-preservation. Rather than running the other way like any sane person when he meets Mitch, still bloody on the way home after a fight one night, he decides to force himself into Mitch's life. By this point they are somewhat friends, at the very least Mitch cares, and Stiles has an open invitation to crash with him whenever he wants/needs toget away for a while.

Stiles is sitting on the bathroom counter, more light for Mitch to be able to see the small shards of glass in his left cheek. Mitch is as careful as he can be, picking them out with a pair of tweezers and dropping them in the sink. They’re small enough that they don’t really hurt, more a sharp sting to accompany the profuse bleeding, and the wounds aren’t bad enough to scar despite all the blood. Glass is insidious that way, slicing deep, sharper than any blade. And with so many vessels in the face, it’s no wonder Stiles is a bloody mess. 

After he’s certain all the glass is gone, Mitch carefully disinfects the cuts and tapes a small bandage over Stiles’ cheek to soak up the blood. 

The entire time, Stiles has kept his eyes downcast, refusing to look at Mitch. He knew that if he did, if he saw the concern and care in the others eyes, he would break down crying and he didn’t know how long it would be before he could stop again, feeling so vulnerable that he might just shatter into a million pieces, like the bottle of alcohol his father threw into the wall beside his head less than an hour ago. 

“Do you want to stay a few days?” Mitch offers, smoothing down a line of tape with his thumb. The caress is so, so gentle. It makes Stiles’ eyes water, and as much as he tries, he can’t blink back the tears.

“Yes please,” he says quietly, pitifully, his voice hoarse and raw with emotion. 

Mitch doesn’t pull away yet, like maybe he knows Stiles will crumble if he does. He stays right where he is between the teens thighs, under the guise of checking him over for more injuries. There’s nothing, aside from some more glass that Mitch brushes out of his hair with his fingers, the flakes delicate and too small to cut through his roughened palms. 

Stiles leans forward to kiss Mitch before he’s even fully processed the thought. It’s inelegant, inexperienced. Surprisingly Mitch doesn’t pull away, cupping Stiles’ uninjured cheek and kissing back, slow and deep.

When he does break the kiss Stiles leans forward slightly for more, following, something like a keen building in the back of his throat. 

“It’s been a long day, you should get some rest,” Mitch tells him softly, the kindest rejection Stiles has ever revived. He supposes he should be grateful Mitch is letting him down easy, instead of kicking him out. It still stings with humiliation. 

“Can I stay with you tonight?” Stiles pleads, hopeful and desperate. He doesn’t want to be alone, today of all days. 

Stiles finally looks up at Mitch, and it looks like he’s going to refuse this one request. But he must have seen something in Stiles, because his expression changes from wary to resigned, and he nods. “Yeah, you can.” There are no warnings for Stiles to behave himself, or else be relegated to the couch again. Part of him wonders if Mitch will reject him again, if Stiles offers himself up, pliant and willing. He doesn’t want to test that, keeping his hands to himself when Mitch takes him to his bedroom. He doesn’t try to take anything more than already offered, curled up against Mitch with the others arms wrapped comfortingly around him, holding him together. 

“My mom died five years ago, today,” Stiles says later, not entirely sure if Mitch is still awake. His breaths are deep and even, steady like he’s asleep. “My dad... he doesn’t handle the anniversary well. It’s worse this year though, there’s so much going on between me, and his work, and just... life in general. I cope my way, he copes his way. Neither of us are very good at it.”

Speaking into the dark is easier, when he doesn’t have to face the judgement of his audience. It makes crying easier, too, silent tears rolling down his cheeks and dampening Mitch’s shirt where Stiles’ head is pillowed on his chest. 

“I miss my mom. I know she would be so disappointed in us, but I don’t know what to do, with her gone. I don’t know how to fix everything that’s gone wrong since she... she...” he sniffles, takes a deep breath to try and calm himself. It doesn’t work. “My dad blames me. Earlier today, he said I killed my mom, and now I’m killing him, too,” Stiles says, his voice forced, artificially steady and cold, trying to distance himself from the words. 

Mitch doesn’t say anything, because there’s nothing to say. No advice he can give, nothing but worthless, empty condolences. Still, he offers what comfort he can, stroking his fingers along Stiles’ arm and holding him close, a warm and steady presence. It just makes Stiles miss his dad, the way he used to be. Before his mom died, and his dad turned to alcohol to cope with the loss. He couldn’t remember the last time his dad had hugged him.


	2. Mitch/Stiles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Lacrosse game gone horribly wrong. But, no pain no gain, right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Fill for Stitch Anon: So after all of those lovely cheek kisses, how about Stiles/Mitch "Carry me"? I got this image of piggy back rides or Mitch carrying Stiles bridal style stuck in my head and I can't get it out.

The hunter picked Stiles up like he weighed nothing. It was something that always impressed him; Mitch was strong enough to give the werewolves a run for their money. Normally Stiles would appreciate the display a little more, but-

“It’s broken!” he wailed, burying his face in Mitch’s shoulder so that he wouldn’t have to see the swollen, mangled mess of his right foot. He was never going to play lacrosse again. His pro career was over, just as he was starting to get good. Figures.

“Shut up,” Mitch oh-so-kindly said. Stiles always did love his caring nature and sweet nothings. “And stop squirming or I’ll drop you.” 

It was an empty threat—Stiles hoped—but he clung to Mitch tighter just in case the sadistic bastard went through with it. Stiles may go down, but he wasn’t going down alone. 

Mitch set Stiles down on the bench, the cold metal freezing his ass through his thin shorts, and kneeled down in front of him to get a better took at his ankle.

“Oh my god,” Allison said, running over to them, watching Mitch carefully ease off Stiles’ shoe and sock. Stiles’ eyes bugged when saw the purpling swelling. 

“I think I’m going to faint.” 

“Should we call an ambulance?”

“Nah, he’s fine.”

“That is not fine!” Stiles squeaked. Mitch just rolled his eyes, gently feeling around tiles’ ankle and moving his foot. Stiles could only whimper. 

“It’s sprained. You’ll be fine.” 

“I’m gonna die.” 

“Ally, toss me his bag.” Allison went searching through the pile of lacrosse bags before coming up with Stiles, and brought it over to Mitch. He fished through it until he come up with a container of bengay. “At least you came prepared.”

Stiles made a pitiful sound of agreement, his teeth bared in a cringe as he watched Mitch scoop out some of the cream and rub it in his hands. 

“Ow ow ow!” 

Mitch looked up at Stiles with an unimpressed expression. “I haven’t even touched you yet.” 

“Oh. Sorry, please continue.” Beside them Allison giggles, taking Stiles’ hand in silent solidarity. “I feel like a woman going through labor,” he said, squeezing her hand when Mitch picked up his foot again. 

“You are such a freak.” Stiles snapped finger-guns in Mitch’s direction, then tried not to whimper as he gently rubbed the bengay into his ankle. 

“Your cousin is a sadist,” Stiles whisper-yelled to Allison, not at all trying to be discreet. She just grinned back at him, nudging his shoulder. 

“And you’re a masochist for being into it.”

“Lies.” 

“There, that should help the swelling,” Mitch said when he was finished. 

“Thank you,” Stiles cooed, wiggling his toes to check that nothing was in fact broken. “You are my favorite person.”

“Uh-huh. You say that now.” 

“I mean it. You forgot something, though.” 

“What’s that?” Stiles wiggled his toes in Mitch’s face, and counted himself lucky Mitch didn’t smack his foot away like he deserved. He looked like he was sorely tempted though. Stiles dropped his foot back to Mitch’s lap just in case. 

“You’ve gotta kiss it better. Only way to cure it.” Stiles caught the fond smile Mitch was trying to hold back even as he rolled his eyes. Still, Mitch carefully lifted his foot and placed a gentle kiss on his swollen ankle, and Stiles about swooned. 

“There. Better?”

“Totally, it doesn’t even hurt anymore.” 

After the game Mitch chivalrously took Stiles home, on account of his ankle being FUBAR, and even walked him to the door. 

“Y’know,” Stiles drawled, one arm slung around Mitch’s shoulders while he fished in his pockets for his keys. “The stairs are going to be tricky. I could fall down and break my neck. I think I’ll need you to carry me to my room.” 

“I’m certain there are easier ways of getting me into your room, Stiles.” 

“Probably, but my way is more fun.” Stiles wiggled his eyebrows suggestively at him. “So?”

“Come on,” Mitch said with a put upon sigh. Stiles knew it was an act. He unlocked the door and all but jumped into Mitch’s arms to be carried across the threshold like a bride. “You’re pretty spry for someone with a broken ankle,” Mitch said dryly, kicking the door closed behind him. 

“It’s my cross to bear.” 

Mitch dropped Stiles unceremoniously on his bed when they got upstairs, and then almost crushed him when Stiles refused to let go, pulling him down too. 

“My dad won’t be home until morning. Stay a while?” 

“I dunno, I think it might be best to leave you to heal.”

“It’s my ankle that’s broken, not my dick.”

“You’re ankle’s not broken,” Mitch said with a smile, finally letting Stiles pull him down into a kiss. 

*** 

It wasn’t even an hour later when Stiles’ dad pulled up in his cruiser. Neither of them noticed until it was too late, too busy with each other. Stiles had his hands under Mitch’s shirt, wanting to get him out of it but not wanting to stop kissing him, when he heard the front door open and close. 

“Busted,” Stiles said breathlessly, looking up at Mitch with owlish wide eyes. 

“So much for your dad not being back until later.” 

“You need to go!” Stiles whispered yelled. John was coming up stairs, his footfalls heavy and loud. 

“Where am I supposed to go?” Mitch whispered back. Stiles pushed him towards the window. “Fuck that.” 

“Just_ go!” _

“Jesus Christ–” 

Mitch was halfway through the window when John opened the door. The three of them froze, staring at each other. Maybe if Mitch didn’t move, Stiles dad wouldn’t see him? 

“Sooo…. sup dad,” Stiles said casually, sprawling out on the bed like he hadn’t just spent the last hour making out with his secret boyfriend. 

“Stiles. Mitch.”

“Hello, Sheriff.” John looped his thumbs through the front of his heavy gun belt; the Glock on his right side was suddenly very pronounced. So were the hickies on Mitch’s neck, which he was becoming very aware of. 

“You staying for dinner?” John drawled. Mitch glanced at a very tense Stiles. 

“… Yes?”

“Good answer, son. Both of you better be down in ten.” 

“Yes, sir.” John nodded like that was it, and left the room. He didn’t close the door. Mitch climbed back inside the room, half-wondering if he should just jump out and run for his life. “How fucked am I?”

“Not sure.” Stiles quirked a small smile. “But I mean, that could have gone worse, right? He didn’t shoot you at least.”

“For some reason that doesn’t make me feel any better,” Mitch said flatly. Stiles got up and limped over, taking Mitch’s hand to tug him closer. 

“For what it’s worth, I’m pretty sure he likes you.” 

“I’m pretty sure he likes me less now.” 

“Nahh….” 

“Thanks, Stiles, you sound so confident.” 

“It’ll probably be fine. Now c’mere.” 

Mitch leaned down to kiss Stiles again just in time for John to pass by. “Ahem.” The two of them jumped apart guiltily to see John standing in the door way, dressed in regular clothes with his arms crossed over is chest. “Down stairs, you two. Now, let’s go.”

“What happened to ten-” Mitch covered Stiles’ mouth before he could finish that comment. 

“We’re coming,” Mitch said, pushing Stiles out of the room. 


	3. Peter/Mitch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Hales run a wolf sanctuary, and one day Peter finds an injured and feral werewolf in the woods.

Peter is the one who finds the wolf out in the woods. It’s big and black, with matted fur and dry white teeth that are bared in a snarl. He’s dehydrated and starved, frighteningly thin. Unable to hunt with the beartrap around his hind leg. The blood saturating his fur is congealed and layered, and old wound. The wolf could have been trapped there for week, for all Peter knew.

He puts up a fight when Peter creeps closer, snarling and growling. A low rumble that would be a lot more intimidating if the wolf could lift his head off the ground.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” Peter says, holding his hand out for the wolf to sniff. It almost bites him, but he’s quick enough to jerk away. He smiles at the beast. “Looks like you’ve still got some life in you after all.” Still, he won’t be able to help the poor creature if it’s going to try and gnaw his arm off, so Peter crouches down and flashes his eyes. They widen when the wolf’s eyes glow an iridescent blue.

***

Peter frees the werewolf and carries him back to the house. Talia meets him outside, able to smell the blood before he even breaks through the tree line.

“What happened?” she asks, arms crossed over her shirt.

“I found him in a bear trap on my patrol. He’s a werewolf.” Talia inhales sharply, looking at the wolf - a omega - in a new light. She leads Peter around the house to the infirmary, taking out her phone to call Deaton while Peter lays the wolf on a metal table. It’s so weak it hardly reacts, giving a pitiful whine. Peter strokes the wolf’s flank, trying to soothe him and draw out the pain. There is so much to take, it’s no wonder the were hasn’t shifted back; eve werewolves can get to a point of exhuastion where the shift is unattainable, where healing is impossible.

***

Deaton gets to the house in record time once he hears that there is a werewolf in need. Apart from the dehydration and malnourishment, and the wounds cause by the beartrap, the werewolf has several broken ribs perforating his lungs, and 3 bullets embedded between his shoulder blades. Peter holds him down while Deaton digs them out, not that his presence is really needed. The wolf is too weak to fight. Mostly Peter is just there to keep him calm and take his pain while Deaton works.

***

They’re all expecting the wolf to shift back a day or two after that, but he never does. A few days turns into a week, into two weeks, into a month. Slowly the wolf is nursed back to health. His black hair gets thick and glossy, he fills out so that his ribs aren’t so prominent. He heals, but he never shifts.

“Are you certain he’s a werewolf?” Talia asks two months later, watching the wolf - Sirius, they’ve named him - pace along the edge of the enclosure. They haven’t yet introduced him to the other wolves, unsure how he will react. He’s still so aggressive, the last thing any of them want is one of the wolves in their sanctuary to get hurt.

“Positive. I saw his eyes, Talia.”

“Then why won’t he shift?”

***

“Trauma,” Deaton tells them. “I’m assuming he was on the run, perhaps for so long that he forgot he was human to begin with. It may take some time for the man to regain control of his more primal instincts, so to speak. I have a feeling that the wolf became a survival mechanism; the more he relied on it, the more it took control.”

“There’s nothing we can do for him, then.”

“Aside from showing him that he is in a safe enough environment to relearn how to be human, I’m afraid not.”

***

Sirius becomes a fixture amongst the pack. They keep him isolated, after an attempt to socialize him ends with one of the wolves badly injured. Isolated, but not alone. Peter spends much of his time shifted into his wolf form and in the enclosure. Sirius chases him and fights with him, suspicious and wary. Peter doesn’t mind. It alleviates his conscience and gets him out of his chores. The wolf sanctuary was Talia’s idea after all, let her do the menial tasks he wants nothing to do with.

***

The children are curious about him. The lone werewolf who won’t shift. Laura, ever the serious one, taking after her mother, keeps her distance. She listens to her alpha. Derek avoids Sirius as well, not so much because he was told to, but because he has nothing better to do. But Cora, sweet girl that she is, never had a taste for the rules. She takes after Peter in that way. Normally he adores her for it, right up until he sees her out of the corner of his eye, sneaking into Sirius’ enclosure. Everything stop.

Then, Peter is running for the back door.

“_Cora_!”

The little girl is oblivious to the danger, or perhaps fearless in the face of it. She is five years old and all of four feet tall, but she walks proudly into a den that is not hers, her big round eyes glowing preternatural gold.

Sirius growls, stalking towards her, belly low to the ground and ready to strike.

Peter runs, Talia and her husband following after hearing his shout.

Sirius gets to Cora first.

Remarkably, the wolf sits down in front of her, easily as tall as the little girl. She smile a big gap-toothed gran and wraps her arms around his neck, grubby little hands buried in his ruff, and the feral wolf _lets her_. Sniffs her hair and licks her cheek, making her giggle. None of the adults know what to do, whether to approach and risk angering him, or stay where they are.

“Cora, honey, come here,” Talia calls. Peter can hear her heart rabbiting in her chest, can smell her fear. Possibly for the first time, he muses.

“No!” Cora shouts back. Peter could swear the wolf grins, pulling his teeth back in a gruesome smile. Sirius looks right at him over the top of Cora’s head, and Peter thinks he can see an intelligence that wasn’t there before. As though, slowly, the man behind the wolf is regaining control. Little by little.


	4. Mitch & Stiles (Gen)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is actually going to later be Pitch and Sterek respectively once I get around to finishing the damn fic.

Stiles came home to find the couch entirely taken up by a huge sleeping panther. The long tail hanging over the edge swished slowly from side to side, and he could just make out the sound of heavy purring. 

“Mitch. Mitch!” The panther slowly opened his eyes, narrowing them when he saw Stiles standing at the door. “Get off the couch, dude. You’re getting hair everywhere.” Mitch yawned threateningly, putting all of his sharp teeth on display. He kneaded the arm of the couch with his massive paws and stretched languidly, then settled back down, pointedly rubbing all over the fabric. 

“You’re a dick.” 

Mitch hissed at him. 

***

Scott came over an hour later. By that point Mitch was back in human form, and disgruntled about it. If he wanted to walk around on two legs he would have stayed at college. 

“It smells like cats in here,” Scott said, wrinkling his nose up in confusion. Mitch, who was in the kitchen making coffee, snorted. 

“You haven’t told him, yet?” he asked cryptically. 

“Told who what?” Scott asked. Mitch rolled his eyes. The enhanced werewolf senses were wasted on Scott if he couldn’t even pick out that his best friend was a panther. 

“Um… we got a cat recently?” Stiles slid his eyes over towards Mitch, who was less than impressed with the flimsy excuse. Glaring at his brother, Stiles said, “Yeah, he’s kind of an asshole and he hates people, so don’t expect to see him around.” 

Mitch bared his teeth in a saccharine smile. “I’m pretty sure he pissed on your bed earlier.”

“He did_ not,”_ Stiles said, scandalized. Mitch just shrugged, sipping his coffee. When he headed upstairs Stiles went after him. “If he does anything to my room I’m gonna take him to Deaton’s to get neutered!”

“Good luck with that,” Mitch said, flipping Stiles off over his shoulder. 

***

“What was that about?” Scott asked when Stiles returned. 

“Oh, y’know. Cats are assholes.”


	5. Mitch/Stiles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mitch is a faithless exorcist, and Stiles is.... something.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was actually inspired by Constantine. I adore that movie, and the show was even better (what little of it I saw, anyway)

POSSESSION

n. 1. The state of having, owning, or controlling something.

Stiles climbed out onto the roof where Mitch was sitting, looking out at the stars. For the first time since Stiles had met him, he looked peaceful. He got the impression that peace wasn’t something Mitch saw a lot of, in his line of work.

“You’re supposed to be sleeping,” Mitch told him, not turning around. Stiles shrugged even though he knew Mitch wouldn’t see. At this point, he wasn’t surprised that Mitch knew he was there, no matter how quiet he was being.

“Not tired yet.”

“Try closing your eyes.”

“In a few minutes.” Stiles careful climbed down to sit beside Mitch, warily eyeing the edge. He’d never been particularly graceful, and if ever there was a time for him to fall and break his neck, with his luck it would be now. Casting a glance at Mitch, he saw that the exorcist didn’t appear to care about the height. Of course he didn’t; he’d seen much scarier things than a fifteen foot drop onto soft grass.

“This doesn’t work if you don’t go to sleep.”

“I will, just…” Stiles chewed his bottom lip. He knew what the truth was, that he was _afraid_, but he didn’t want to say that. Not to Mitch, who was never afraid of anything, never even surprised. “Just not yet.”

“I don’t like it when people waste my time, Stiles.”

“I know, I’m sorry, I’m not trying to.”

“Then stop lying to me.” Mitch finally turned to face Stiles. His features were mostly cast in shadows, backlit by the light down the street. Not that it would make a difference; Stiles could never get a read on him. Mitch was closed off, better at hiding his emotions than anyone else Stiles had ever met. It made him feel at a disadvantage; Mitch never had any trouble reading him like an open book, even if they were strangers.

“I don’t know what’s going to happen after I go to sleep,” Stiles said after a while, Mitch watching him in impassive silence, waiting.

“You’re worried you’ll hurt someone.” The teen nodded, looking down. “I won’t let you.” Stiles laughed humorlessly, pulling his knees up to his chest. Mitch made it sound so simple, when it was anything but.

“Will you kill me?”

“Do you want me to?”

“It’s rude to answer a question with a question.”

“You’re evading.”

Stiles thought he might have seen the shadow of a smile out of the corner of his eye, but he couldn’t be sure. Probably just a trick of the light, since Mitch had never actually smiled around him. He wondered what his smile looked like. He wondered if he would ever get to see it.

“I’m losing time. It started with just a few minutes here and there, and then hours at a time. Now it’s full nights. And when I wake up, I’m dirty, but I have no idea where I’ve gone, and I think… I think I might be hurting people. No one believes me when I try to tell them, not even my dad.” Stiles took a deep breath, hugging his legs tighter. He could feel Mitch’s eyes on him, heavy and scrutinizing, simultaneously making him want to hide and bare everything. “I don’t want to keep living like this. Even if I’m not the one killing people, there’s still _something_ wrong with me, and if even you don’t know what it is, what hope do I have?”

“I don’t know everything. If I can’t help you, then someone else can.”

“Or maybe no one can.” Stiles rubbed harshly at his eyes when he felt them stinging, wetness spilling over. “I just—It feels like God must hate me, or something. It’s like I’m cursed. Either I’m insane, or I’m possessed, or it’s some as-yet-unheard-of problem, and I just—I can’t _deal_ with it. And if this is just some divine plan or whatever—” Mitch scoffed, cutting him off. Stiles’ attention snapped up to him.

“God doesn’t care about you. He’s a kid with an ant-farm and a magnifying glass. Those unfortunate enough to make him want to take a closer look just get burned.”

“How can you say that, knowing what you know?”

“I can say it _because_ of what I know.”

“Then why did you become an exorcist?” Mitch wasn’t looking at him anymore, face tilted up towards the stars. After a minute passed, Stiles thought he wasn’t going to answer. He was almost surprised when Mitch finally did.

“This is my penance for the life I took.”

It was on the tip of Stiles’ tongue to ask what that meant. Then Mitch took out a pack of cigarettes and held one to his lips. When he flicked his lighter to life, Stiles saw the gruesome scar running down his wrist, silvery-white in the light, and he knew there was undoubtedly a match to it on his other arm.

The flame died a second later, once again casting them in darkness with nothing but the stars and moon for light. Stiles felt like he’d briefly glimpsed a sliver of Mitch’s soul.

Mitch didn’t tell him to go inside again, letting Stiles stay out on the roof with him. Maybe because he knew what Stiles was going through; the constant self-doubt about what was real and what wasn’t, the feeling that God had condemned him. The crushing loneliness. Maybe, just for tonight, Mitch had decided he didn’t want to be alone anymore either, finding a kindred spirit in Stiles.

After Mitch put his lighter away, his body language changed. If not quite welcoming, it was at least open, leaning back on his arms with his long legs stretched out in front of him. Stiles hesitated, still bound up tight with the way he was sitting, but gradually he relaxed as well. Slowly he moved closer to Mitch, waiting to be pushed away like always, but the rejection never came. Mitch just rhythmically tapped his cigarette on the asphalt shingle, like a metronome. Stiles wondered if it was a nervous habit, and almost immediately cast that thought aside; he was the last thing in the world that would make Mitch nervous.

Stiles watched his nimble fingers move, Mitch’s arm not quite around Stiles’ waist, but close enough that it would only take a small movement to put it there. Stiles wished he would.

As Stiles watched the cigarette slowly turn to ash, burned away to nothing, Mitch would occasionally bring it to his lips for a deep drag. Each time Stiles would lean a little closer. Each time Mitch would let him.

“Can I have one?” Stiles asked when Mitch put out the cigarette a while later, expecting him to reach for another.

“No.”

“Can I ask you something?”

“Go ahead.”

Stiles turned so that he could better see Mitch, carefully pitched forward on his hands and knees to keep from falling, the position all but putting him in the exorcist’s lap. Whatever question he had died on the tip of his tongue, or maybe it was just an excuse. Permission for something he didn’t realize he was going to do until he met Mitch’s dark eyes.

When he kissed Mitch he could taste the bitter nicotine on his tongue, sharp and unpleasant. But he didn’t care because Mitch kissed him back, pulling him closer with a hand curled around the back of his neck, and it was everything Stiles has been dreaming of ever since Mitch pinned him up against the door with his hand around Stiles’ throat that first night. Mitch kissed him breathless, until Stiles’ lips were swollen and tingly, and he gave a soft whine of disappointment Mitch broke it.

“You should go to bed,” he whispered, lips brushing Stiles’ like he didn’t want to pull away either.

“I don’t want to.”

“_Stiles_.”

“Come with me,” Stiles quietly pleaded. “I don’t want to sleep alone.” He knew there were seventeen reasons why this was a bad idea, but he couldn’t help but want. And he knew Mitch wanted it too, could feel it in the way he kissed, like he was holding himself back. For a moment, it seemed like Mitch would go with him. Then he took Stiles by the shoulder and shoved him away.

“No,” Mitch decided, his tone harsh, final. “Either you leave or I will.”

Stiles reeled back as if he had been slapped. He didn’t expect such a cold rejection, especially after that kiss, and it stung. More than he would like to admit, sudden tears stinging his eyes from the humiliation.

Not wanting to show how much Mitch cut him, Stiles pulled away and stalked back to his window, climbing through and slamming it close hard enough to make the glass rattle.

***

Mitch swore, closing his eyes against the emotional whiplash he was picking up on from Stiles, the closed window doing nothing to serve as a barrier against his projections. Usually Mitch was able to block him out, a skill that had been hard earned, but he was starting to get a migraine.

He’d never seen anything like Stiles before; he wasn’t a half-breed, or any kind of psychic, and yet his will was strong enough to get through years’ worth of defenses Mitch had built up in an effort to not hear the thoughts of everyone around him. Or maybe he was just distracted by the kiss, by his desire. It had been a long time since he’d wanted someone as much as he wanted Stiles. But the last thing he needed was a teenager panting after him like a puppy, especially when said teenager’s father was the local sheriff.

Bruising the kid’s pride now and showing him that Mitch was not the kind of person he wanted was in both of their best interests. But even as Mitch tried to convince himself of that, Gabriel’s words came to him, haunting. 

_There is nothing you have ever done for someone else that wasn’t first and foremost self-serving. You can dress it up however you like, but you’re a selfish prick through and through, and that is why you will never buy your way into heaven._

In his room, the humiliation and longing and loneliness and a dozen other emotions were pouring off of Stiles like poison, and Mitch cursed because he knew what he was going to do as soon as he saw the tears gathering in Stiles’ eyes.

“Fuck me,” he said, bitter, and got up. His soul was damned anyway, right?

***

Stiles sat up in bed when he heard the window slide open, the wood grating against itself in protest. A second later Mitch was climbing through like a spider, all black-clad long limbs and grace. He hadn’t expected Mitch to come after him, and he felt cornered, hiding in his bed with blotchy-red cheeks. He felt like a stupid kid after a temper-tantrum compared to the cool and confident exorcist. 

“What do you want?” he asked, proud that he managed to keep his voice steady. It was probably pointless; Mitch could read him like a book before, and that was without Stiles wearing his emotions on his face. 

That was the question, wasn’t it? What did he want. To save his soul, mostly. To not have to spend eternity in hell for the mistake he made when he was fifteen and saw no other way out. To deport as many demons as he could. To get the hell out of this shitty little town that had a way of getting under his skin. 

But none of that mattered to him now. He didn’t want to leave Beacon Hills if it meant leaving Stiles, and the furthest thing from his mind was saving his soul, when all he could think of was ways to damn it further. 

When Stiles got out of bed and cautiously approached, Mitch gave him the raw, unadulterated, sinful truth. 

“You. I want you.” 


	6. Mitch/Stiles

“What the fuck were you thinking?” That’s the first thing Stiles hears when he comes to. His body is a strange mix of numb and in unbelievable pain; like he can feel it, but the morphine drip makes it so he just… doesn’t care. It’s good stuff. 

Slowly he takes stock of his body, wiggles his toes and fingers. HIs EKG has already given away that he’s awake and he can feel the weight of Mitch’s glare on him now. He’s not sure he’s ready to face it yet, so he takes his time getting his bearings. By the time he groggily blinks open heavy eyelids Mitch isn’t impressed, standing with his arms crossed over his chest and his expression stormy. 

“Hey,” Stiles croaks. He licks his dry lips, works his mouth trying to moisten it with saliva. Mitch helpfully hands him a half full cup of water and then continues to glower at him. 

“You could have gotten yourself killed.” 

“But I didn’t.”

“_Stiles_-”

“What!” Stiles doesn’t like the way Mitch stresses his name that way. It makes him want to shrink away and hide, like he’s getting scolded by his dad or called to the principal’s office. The queasy, nervous feeling in his stomach does nothing to help him relax. 

“You wanted my attention, right? Well now you’ve fucking got it. I’ll ask again, what the _fuck_ were you thinking?” 

“I dunno,” Stiles mumbles, playing with the edge of his pale blue blanket. He can’t bring himself to look at Mitch, to see his disapproval. 

“That’s not good enough.” 

“I don’t have a good answer for you, okay! Yeah, I wanted you to notice me, so fucking what?”

“You almost got yourself killed! How do you think your father would have felt if I hadn’t gotten to you in time?”

“Don’t you dare bring my dad into this.” Tears stung Stiles’ eyes when he finally faces Mitch. He looks angry, frightening. But beneath that he looks scared. “That’s not fair.” 

“You want to cry about what isn’t fair? How about putting me in that situation? I’m the one that gets to take the consequences for what happens to you when you’re with me, I’m the one that has to face you father when his_ only child_ gets hurt. And you know what, it is not fucking easy to be around you when every time I turn around, you’re off doing something stupid!”

“Well I’m sorry to be such a burden to you!”

“Jesus Christ, you’re not–It’s because I actually fucking care about you, okay? And I can’t spend all my time worrying about what stupid shit you’re going to pull next!” 

Stiles’ EKG bit out an unsteady rhythm, the beeping harsh in the silence of the room. Stiles doesn’t know what to say, looking at Mitch with wide eyes, unshed tears glistening. Mitch doesn’t look like he knows what to say either, at a loss for words after that confession. Stiles sniffles softly. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, a peace offering. “I’ll try to be more careful from now on.” Mitch doesn’t look like he quite believes Stiles, but can Stiles blame him? His behavior has never lent itself towards caution, least of all where Mitch was concerned. He must see something in the way that Stiles looks at him though, because he sighs and finally sits down, taking Stiles’ hand when he offers it. 

“You’re a menace,” Mitch tells him. Stiles cracks a shaky smile. 

“You love me anyway, though.” Mitch smiles back, soft and so fond that it causes an ache in Stiles’ chest. 

“Yeah, I think I might.” 


	7. Chapter 7

For a brief moment, time seemed to slow, giving Mitch a chance to appreciate his impending fate. “Fuck.” A massive truck was closing in on him, swerving to take up the entire road, giving him nowhere to go. Mitch wrenched his stolen motorcycle to the side in hopes of avoiding the inevitable collision, just in time for the driver to take out an Uzi and open fire. 

Mitch went crashing over the railing and tumbling over the face of the cliff. The last thing he saw before his vision went black was Victor standing over the edge, watching him fall. 

***

“Did you get the eggs yet?” John called from the kitchen. Stiles, who hadn’t yet gotten out of bed, groaned into his pillow. 

“No!” he shouted back. Just a few more minutes, that’s all he wanted, but his dad wasn’t having it. 

“Go get them, or I’m not making you breakfast!” 

“Fiiine.” Stiles dragged his way out of bed, yawning and stretching until his back popped in at least three places. It was a tedious process getting layered up to go outside. Luckily the morning routine was one he was accustomed to, and it didn’t take long before he was lacing up his boots and winding a scarf around his neck. 

John ruffled Stiles’ hair on his way out the door, laughing when Stiles had to circle back to get the egg basket after confidently marching off without it. 

“Goodmorning, girls,” Stiles greeted when he opened the hatch granting him access to the chickens. All of the hens were nesting in the coop, huddled in their nesting boxes to keep warm while they layed. The twelve of them were used to the procedure, not batting an eye as he went fishing underneath all of them for their eggs. Except for Greta, but she was always a stubborn old thing. Stiles pet her ruffled feathers to soothe her, ducking out of the way before she got the idea to start pecking his hand. 

Stiles rounded the coop to toss feed out for the chickens, and screamed when he found a man leaning against the other side. The egg basket fell from his hands to crack on the snow-covered ground, but Stiles didn’t even notice. 

The man was unconscious, his skin stained red and his lips tinged blue. Stiles couldn’t tell if he was even still alive, couldn’t imagine he was after a night in the cold. Snow dusted his dark hair and eyelashes like little stars. 

“Stiles! What happened?” 

“Look!” John pulled up short when he saw the man, shock overtaking his features. 

“Jesus. Help me get him inside, we’ll figure out what to do from there.” Stiles hurried around to grab the man’s legs while his father lifted his torso, dubiously watching for him to wake. The man didn’t so much as twitch when they picked him up. He was stiff from the cold and heavy, making it a struggle to get him inside and situated on the couch. Stiles went for more blankets while John lit the fireplace. 

“Is he still alive?” Stiles asked when he returned. John had his fingers on the man’s neck, searching for a pulse. He nodded solemnly. 

“Barely. We’ll get him warmed up and see how long he stays that way.”

First thing’s first, they had to get him out of those wet clothes. The boots were easiest, and it only got harder from there. Stiles ended up cutting away his pants and shirt, not feeling too bad since they were already ruined. Once he was undressed to his boxers Stiles was able to see the full scope of his injuries. He got a towel from the kitchen to mop up the blood, thankful that none of the obvious wounds seemed too serious. He at least wasn’t in danger of bleeding out, mostly just scraped up from whatever led to him collapsing outside their chicken coop. 

Once Stiles did what he could to get him cleaned up, he bundled the man up in soft blankets and left him to thaw out. Already some color was returning to his deathly pale complexion. When he began shivering some time later, Stiles took it as a good sign. 


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by Dorian Gray. Stiles unknowingly offered up his soul for eternal youth. Mitch sold his own for power and immortality, to forever be with the one person who could never truly love him. 
> 
> Mitch used to be a doctor back in the 1880s in London (thereabouts anyway) when Stiles came to stay with him in the city, and quickly fell in with the wrong crowd (namely, Peter.) and thus began his slow descent into corruption and sin. 
> 
> CW for Incest and murder?

Mitch called out for his brother as he entered the extravagant apartment. “In the bath,” came the reply, muffled by distance. It was strange to hear him sometimes, with the way his accent had faded over the years. Occasionally he liked to try on new ones until they went out of style. “Be a love and bring me a glass of wine, will you?” Unable to deny Stiles anything, Mitch dutifully crossed to the bar to pour half a glass for Stiles. He paused for only a moment, indecision putting him at odds with himself. When Stiles called for him to hurry up Mitch made his decision, pulling a small crystal vial out of his pocket. He pulled out the stopper with a hollow sound and upended the contents into the wine: a deep red syrup that turned it rich and potent. 

Stiles waited for him in a sea of bubbles, the bathroom lit only with candles and moonlight streaming in from the large window, diffused by sheer curtains. Mitch handed the glass to him, watched him take a sip with an appreciative hum.

“I’m sorry about Katrina,” Stiles offered, sounding more placating than sincere. Mitch was used to it by now; he couldn’t remember the last time Stiles was sincere about anything. Not for a century, at least. Not since before this all began. 

“It’s in the past.” Sties reached out to take Mitch’s hand, soapy fingers coiling around his wrist like adders, keeping him from pulling away. Mitch was dispassionate as Stiles dusted a wine-stained kiss over the back of his hand. Once, that simple affection would have had his heart leaping from his chest. Now it beat steadily on, unaffected. “Why did you kill her?” Mitch asked out of morbid curiosity, wanting Stiles to confirm what he already knew. That he was jealous, covetous, couldn’t stand the thought of Mitch with anyone else.

“You’re mine,” Stiles said simply. There was no remorse in him. He looked up at Mitch with a beatific smile, then hid it behind his glass as he took another long sip. 

“I’ll always be yours,” Mitch agreed, voice soft, no trace of a lie because there wasn’t one, even now. Stiles owned him, his body if not his soul. With his free hand he traced the line of Stiles’ jaw, caressed his cheek. Even after all of these years, his brother was still so young and beautiful, not a day past nineteen. He had the face of an angel, but then, how else would the Devil be so tempting, offering up your most sinful desires in such sweet disguise. Stiles leaned into his touch, nuzzled his hand with a content hum like a cat

Then he coughed, ragged and harsh, reminding Mitch of the days when tuberculosis ran rampant through the streets. He slid his hand to the back of Stiles’ neck, took the glass of wine - half of it drunk - from Stiles before he dropped it when the coughing wouldn’t stop. “Are you alright?” he asked with faux concern, kneeling down before Stiles.

Stiles shook his head, clutching his neck. Blood stained his plush lips, coloring the bubbles crimson as it sprayed from his mouth. For the first time, there was true fear in his eyes. 

“What is this? What did you do to me?” Stiles demanded around wracking coughs. Water sloshed over the edge of the tub as he struggled to get away, soaking Mitch, but he didn’t care. HIs dark eyes were cold, devoid of sympathy and remorse as he watched Stiles choke on his own blood, drowning in it as it filled his lungs.

-

Mitch woke from the dream with a start. He could still feel the warmth of Stiles’ blood on his skin, hear the rattle in his chest as he breathed his last, see his eyes glassy and lifeless. A form stirred beside him, a lean arm thrown over his chest. 

“What is it?” Stiles mumbled into his shoulder sleepy. 

“Nothing. Just a dream.” Stiles hummed, kissed his skin. Mitch closed his eyes and savored the touch, hating himself all the more for it. But it wasn’t often he and Stiles fell into bed anymore, and like a dog begging for scraps Mitch would take whatever he could get. 

“Was it a good one?" 

"I don’t know,” Mitch said, but in his heart he knew the truth.


	9. Chapter 9

Mitch entered his apartment at 1:30am to find Stiles lying on his couch, staring listlessly at the wall. "You're still here."

“You’re still here,” he said by way of greeting. Even with his flat tone, his surprise was evident. 

“Yeah. Probably shouldn’t be.” That was putting it lightly. Mitch left four days ago. 

“What happened? You're not usually so quiet." Mitch closed and locked the door, waiting for a follow up, but one never came. Stiles said nothing as Mitch went to lock up his firearms, and continued to say nothing when he came back. Mitch leaned over the back of the couch to look down at Stiles, his arms crossed on the edge. "Talk to me, kid," he said softly.

“You smell like gunpowder.” Mitch didn’t say anything. Stiles knew what he was, but he refrained from talking about his work. He didn’t like having to lie to Stiles and avoidance saved him the trouble. “I killed somebody.”

“Who?”

“This guy from school.” Stiles rubbed his eyes. He was so  _ exhausted _ . “He was gonna kill me. Wanted to make my dad watch.”

“What’s the problem, then? You defended yourself, case closed.”

“It’s not that simple.”

“Why?”

“I dunno. It just... isn’t.” 

Mitch reached down to brush his hand through Stiles’ hair, gently coaxing the teen to look at him. The circles under his eyes were almost black. “When was the last time you slept?” Stiles shrugged. 

“I haven’t been able to go home. I… I can’t face my dad. Not after this.” Stiles closed his eyes, waiting for Mitch to recoil. To shun him, call him a murderer, a  _ monster _ . It was an irrational fear. Knowing that didn’t help matters. 

He whimpered when Mitch pulled away. His touch was like a lifeline and now Stiles was left drifting in the darkness. 

“Get up.”

“Why?”

“We both need to shower and get some sleep.” Mitch had gotten three hours in the last forty-eight. He couldn’t be as tactful as Stiles clearly needed him to be. “We can talk about this in the morning.”

“I can stay?” Stiles asked, hating how pitiful he sounded. 

“Come on.” 

Stiles followed him into his bedroom. Mitch told him to shower first but Stiles really didn’t want to be alone right now. “Come with me? It’ll be faster that way, conserve water and all that...” A weak justification at best, but Mitch didn’t call him on it. Stiles was grateful. 

Stiles barely had the strength to keep standing once he was under the hot spray. Mitch all but had to hold him up, keeping his arms skeins Stiles, keeping him together. Stiles shivered when Mitch softly pet him. 

“It’s going to be okay,” Mitch whispered against his temple, and it was enough to have him falling apart, Stiles wrapped his arms around Mitch’s neck and cried. It was the release he needed ever since  _ it  _ happened. The forgiving water washed away his tears and Mitch held him without judgement until he was done. 

Once they got out Stiles was even more tired than before. Mitch toweled him off and got him into a pair of borrowed clothes to sleep in. Stiles felt bad for making Mitch take care of him, but he couldn’t bring himself to protest. He needed it too much. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Backstory: Mitch and Stiles have an interesting dynamic that isn't quite a relationship yet, but can definitely be described as inappropriately intimate. Mitch doesn't know how to let himself have nice things so when he feels like he's getting too close to Stiles, he can be cold towards him, so Stiles is never sure where they stand. But he knows Mitch cares for him, and would probably kill for him (not that that's saying much), and that whatever this is between them is something more than friends. 
> 
> And, whatever else is going on, Stiles knows he can trust Mitch with this. He wouldn't dare talk to anyone else about the Donnovan situation, but if anyone would get it, it's definitely Mitch.


	10. Chapter 10

“I think I’m feeling something,” Mitch says, looking down at his hands like he doesn’t recognize them anymore. It starts as a tingle in his fingertips, running up his arms and down is spine and buzzing in his brain and he doesn’t know what it is, but, “How do I make it stop?” 

“I don’t know.” Stiles is fascinated, adjusts his glasses and crosses his arms over his chest. “What does it feel like?”

“Fucking bad.” 

“Don’t be like that, this is great!” 

“It’s really not.” Mitch lets Stiles poke and prod at him, looking for answers to this newest question. 

“Do you think it’s from the power surge last night?” Stiles muses, not expecting a response. “Take off your shirt.” 

“Buy me dinner first.” 

“You don’t even  _ eat _ .” 

Mitch grins, pulling his shirt over his head and tossing it over Stiles’ desk chair. He doesn’t miss the way Stiles’ eyes track down his chest before he turns around. That sense of smug gratification is new, too. 

He shivers when Stiles touches him, his fingers skimming lightly up his spine until he finds the seamless panel on the back of Mitch’s neck and opens it, revealing the neat circuitry. There is a slim USB port that Stiles connects his tablet to. 

“Run diagnostics,” Stiles tells him. A second later data fills the screen. “If you see a female turtle lying on it’s back in the side of the road, unable to turn over, what do you do: drive by, or stop and take it home to keep it safe incase it’s injured?”

“I would turn it over and leave it the hell alone.” 

“Why?”

“The way that turtles reproduce means that removing even one from a region can lead to the endangerment of the entire-”

“Oh my _God_, okay, next question.” 

“I also wouldn’t have anywhere to put a turtle. And leaving it on it’s back would just be mean.” 

“Alright, alright, shut up. What’s your favorite color?” 

”Brown.”

“Why?”

“It’s like your eyes. They’re pretty.”

“Oh... um.” Stiles clears his throat. “Thanks. Next question. What’s your happiest memory?”

“What’s the point of this?”

“I want to see how scrambled you are,” Stiles hedges. Mitch pulls the wire out of his neck so that he can turn to face Stiles. 

“No, you want to see if I’m just glitching, or if I can actually  _ feel _ .” 

“Can you?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know what feeling feels like.”

“Aaand that’s what the test is for. Before you so rudely disconnected, I couldn’t find anything wrong with you.” Stiles sets his tablet aside and looks up at Mitch, his eyes bright and excited. “I don’t think it’s a glitch. I think somehow that powersurge like. Scrambled your coding, but didn’t bug it. Do you know what this means!?”

“That I know understand how extreme annoyance feels?”

“No! Dude, I’ve created real, actual artificial intelligence!”

“Technically a freak storm did.”

“Let me have this, okay? This is unprecedented, I need a moment.” Mitch smiles at the weak glare Stiles gives him. It’s strange, not having the action just be a coded response. Stiles was still working on getting his emotional responses worked out before the storm hit. “We need to test you.” 

“How?”

“I don’t know. Go to a pet store and look at puppies? Watch sad movies and see if you cry?” 

“Hm.” That would be one way to do it, but Mitch is thinking of something a little faster. He pulls Stiles close and kisses him before he has a chance to question what that thoughtful hum meant. 

“Why did you do that?” Stiles asks when Mitch lets him go to breathe, his lips tingling. 

“I wanted to.”

“That’s, um, that’s good. Machines don’t want things. Do you, uh, still want to?” he asks hopefully. 

“Yeah, Stiles, I still want to.” 


	11. Chapter 11

There was no shortage of blame once all the children really got going, railing against him for all the crimes he committed. It was Scott who got the process started, as usual. Whining about how Peter ruined his life while ignoring all the things he’d gained, that he never would have had in the first place. Social status, a girlfriend, upcoming lacrosse star thanks to the enhanced abilities and curing of his asthma. 

Stiles at least was entertaining to listen to, he didn’t  _ whine.  _ His only problem was that he didn’t trust Peter, not that Peter blamed him. He respected Stiles for it, in fact. And Lydia, gorgeous, intelligent girl that she was, who knew that the only way to really get something from him was to strike a deal. 

The puppies only followed their alpha. Isaac, Boyd, Erica, they weren’t there for Peter’s reign of terror, as Stiles called it. But Scott hated him and Derek didn’t trust him and so they made the foolish attempt of trying to cut their fangs on him, thinking that they were safe. That they were  _ protected.  _ That Peter cared enough about the consequences not to lash out and cut any of their throats. The only reason he didn’t is because they weren’t worth the effort. And he didn’t want to ruin his favorite outfit. 

The only failed relationship Peter was truly regretful over is with Derek. His misguided nephew who was full of so much hatred and self-loathing that Peter couldn’t stand to be around him. Derek blamed him for Laura’s death—and Peter won’t deny that that was a mistake, a lapse in judgement—and so channeled all of his rage and grief into hating Peter, because then it meant he wouldn’t have to hate himself so much. Peter would repair that bond if he could, he and Derek were once close after all, but Derek won’t let him, and Peter doesn’t really care enough to try. 

Allison is predictable. She hates him because she is a hunter, and he is a werewolf. A known killer, unlike the puppies she plays with. And just as much as she hates him, she hates how she can’t kill him. The precious Code she so foolishly changed on a childish whim prevents her from it; afterall, Peter was only defending himself when he killed her dear aunt Kate in front of her. 

The only one who has any right to hating Peter over Kate’s death is her very own estranged son, who stands opposite Peter in the sad industrial space that functions as Derek’s kitchen. But the hunter has been silent throughout the argument that has raged for over fifteen minutes, his dark eyes watchful and calculating. 

“Do you have anything to add to this?” Peter asks in a bored drawl, cutting off the beginning of another of Scott’s rants and silencing the rest of the children. All eyes turn on the pair of them, Mitch leaning back against the kitchen island with his arms crossed casually over his chest, Peter in his customary place on the stairs. 

The only indication Mitch gives that he heard is a slight tilt of his head as he looks Peter over, a mean little smile quirking the corner of his mouth. 

“I did kill your mother. If anyone should have some complaint with me, I’d expect it to be you.” Peter doesn’t know why he feels the need to elaborate. Maybe because it makes Scott gasp in righteous indignation. Maybe to hear how Allison grinds her teeth together, because she would never defend Kate but it makes her seethe how casually Peter flaunts her death. Allison glances at her cousin, waiting to see how he 

Mitch only shrugs, like Peter admitted to breaking a plate and not an importantly family tie. It’s.... unsettling, the way Peter can never quite get a read on him. He doesn’t know what the hunter wants, what his motives are. He’s on the fringe, like Peter. Not a part of the pack, but not outside of it, either. A tangent. Ostensibly he’s here for Allison, and more generally for the wellbeing of the town, since it is a hunter’s responsibility to protect their territory, and he can’t do that if he doesn’t know what threats are presenting themselves. 

While there’s no doubt Mitch cares for Allison, and Mitch always deals with threats as they come, Peter doesn’t get the impression that either are his primary objective. 

Allison leaves Scott’s side to go stand with Mitch in defiance, two Argents presenting a unified front. Mitch says something to Allison in French that Peter hears but doesn’t understand, with an infuriating smirk that says he wasn’t meant to. Allison scowls but Mitch never looks away from him, a challenging look in his eye. 

Allison says something back and Mitch bumps their shoulders together, finally looking at her when he gives his soft reply. Reluctantly Allison leaves him, rejoining Scott and the others. She touches his arm and quietly says something to him, but Peter doesn’t bother to listen.

Soon, the pack are all clearing out, Stiles shouting something about pizza and videogames. Even Derek gets dragged along with them, only Mitch and Peter left alone in the loft. Peter watches Mitch warily. 

“You want everyone to hate you,” Mitch observes once a minute has passed, plenty of time for the children to have gotten out of earshot. 

“Now why would I want a thing like that?” Peter smoothly asks, standing up to his full height because sitting down has started to make him feel like he’s at a disadvantage. It doesn’t matter, Mitch is still several inches taller, but with the distance between them Peter doesn’t feel the disparity so acutely. Building pressure aches at his nail beds, reminding him he’s a killer. The scent of gunpowder and wolfsbane reminds him he’s in the presence of his only natural predator.

“You tell me.” Mitch uncrosses his arms and puts his hands on the edge of the counter instead. The position may look casual, his posture open rather than defensive. It also puts his hands closer to the gun Peter knows is tucked into the back of his waistband. “Although I have a theory.”

“Enlighten me.”

“You first.” 

“It comes naturally,” Peter says arily. “My cross to bear, I’m afraid.”

“Hm.”

“You don’t believe me?”

“No, I do. But you know, lies of omission are still lies.”

“You would know all about that, I’m sure.” Mitch gives him a saccharine smile that makes the hairs on the back of Peter’s neck stand up.  _ Why  _ does this one man get under his skin so easily? “What did you tell dear Allison?”

“Why do you want to know?” 

“Just curious.”

“Not knowing everything bothers you, doesn’t it?”

“Wouldn’t it bother you?” Is that too much of an admission? 

“Nah, I don’t care that much about other people.” 

“Implying that I do.”

“I think you do, yeah.” 

“Why would I care about any of them?” Peter asks, bristling. “They are stupid, petulant children.”

“Then why haven’t you killed them yet?”

“I would assume you and the rest of your family are waiting for me to try, so you can take the opportunity to kill me. I don’t intend to give any of you the satisfaction.” 

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“Don’t. Even the strongest alpha would be at a disadvantage against three hunters. I am merely a weak omega.”

“You’re a lot of things, Peter, but you aren’t weak. Not as much as you pretend to be, anyway, and we both know it.” 

“Do we?” 

“C’mon, Peter,” the hunter rolls his eyes, granting Peter a moment of reprieve from his heavy gaze, “you play it up way too much to be as weak as you say you are.”

“Perhaps, perhaps not. None of this goes to show why you think I want my nephews strays to hate me.”

“There you go again, having to know everything,” Mitch says with a knowing smirk. Part of Peter wants to tear his throat out; Mitch was the one who maneuvered him into this position in the first place, dangling that assumption in front of him like a carrot that Peter couldn’t refuse. 

“Clearly you want me to know, or you wouldn’t have brought it up.” 

“I’m just waiting for you to tell me the truth.” 

“Have I ever lied to you?”

“Not as much as you lie to yourself.” The comment catches Peter off-guard; Mitch has a habit of doing that, throwing him off his rhythm. He’s more observant than any human has a right to be. “I think you care about Derek, and to some degree the rest of the pack. Well, not Scott, but I’d bet my life you actually like Stiles and Lydia, and tolerate the rest.” 

“Is this part of your theory?”

“Yeah. Am I off the mark?”

“Yes. Quite.”

“Come on, Peter. I don’t have to be a werewolf to know that’s a lie.” 

“Just spit it out, already, Dr. Phil.”

“Fine. Hating you gives them a common enemy. History shows that when you have that, you’re more likely to ignore minor problems. Like, say, a guy breaks up with a girl and she starts dating his friend instead. Things like that can destroy a friendship.”

“Unless they have some greater evil to focus on,” Peter finishes for him. Mitch’s assumption hits a little too close to home. “I’m afraid you couldn’t be farther from the truth. I don’t have to put any effort into making Derek and his little friends hate me; they’re too self-centered and ungrateful to appreciate my help for what it is.” 

“Sure,” Mitch says, nodding along like he believes Peter, even though it’s clear he doesn’t. He pushes off from the counter and for a moment Peter thinks he’s going to attack, but the hunter makes like he’s going to leave. Peter feels the strange urge to call him back, but doesn’t. 

“I told Allison I wanted to talk to you alone,” Mitch says casually, halfway to the door. “She asked why, and I told her that it’s the only way you know how to be.” 

“Takes one to know one,” Peter replies, in lack of anything witty. Mitch gives a soft laugh, stopping at the door and glancing over his shoulder at Peter. 

“Yeah, maybe.” 

It’s the first genuine show of emotion Mitch has directed at Peter. The smallest bit of vulnerability that amounts to nothing, a half-truth extended like an olive branch. 

“Why don’t you hate me for Kate?” Peter finds himself asking, not even conscious of the question until it’s already left his mouth. 

“You’ve already died for your sins, Peter. I would say you’ve suffered enough for a lifetime.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't realize until halfway through that the ages don't line up for Mitch being Kate's kid, but we're gonna pretend they do!


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "I'll bet you're hungry."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Vampire AU!! I live for vampire AUs, I have like 4 vamp Mitch Stitch fics in the works.

Mitch bit into his wrist, blue veins spilling cold blood into his mouth. A futile attempt to fool his body into thinking he's fed; the reprieve would be minimal at best. There were no nutrients left in his own blood, the lack of iron leaving it thin and watery. Disgusting. But he was so _hungry, _with nothing to feed on. No other alternative. Not so much as a rat scurried through his cage. He was left in the dank, dark cell to rot.

***

A sound from outside; a heavy metal door sliding open. The click of bootheels on cement ground. It all echoed through the cell Mitch was confined to. He stayed where he was sitting on the ground in the middle of the cell, his back to the wall. Watching. Waiting.

"I'll bet you're hungry," the woman cooed. She had a voice sticky sweet like molasses. Her blood was rich and thick, her pulse strong and alluring. She drew him in the night they met and Mitch was stupid for not seeing her for the trap she was. A fucking _hunter, _of course. Mitch hated her, dreamed of ripping her throat out with his teeth and drowning in her blood. Of reversing their positions and keeping _her _chained up in a cage, barely alive, just enough for him to slowly bleed her dry over weeks. "I brought a treat for you, sweetheart. I don't want you dying on me." She opened the barred door and threw a human inside. He fell limply to the ground, unconscious. Exposed skin scraped and bleeding from the fall. Mitch's pupils dilated and his mouth watered at the scent of it, his stomach cramping with hunger.

The door clanged closed but Kate stayed on the other side, watching hungrily. _Fucking sadist, _Mitch thought. She probably expected Mitch to tear into the human like a piece of meat, prove to her that he was nothing more than a starving animal, but he wouldn't. He _wouldn't. _Instead he dragged himself as far away from the human as he could get—not very, maybe six feet—and laid against the wall with his back to the boy. _Out of sight, out of mind. _

"You're not going to play with your food?" Kate taunted. Mitch closed his eyes and ignored her. It was easy when the human's heartbeat, his rushing blood, drowned her out. She scoffed. "Fine, then. Maybe you don't deserve a treat after all." Kate entered the cell to drag out the human, carefully watching Mitch the entire time. He didn't move a muscle, waiting for the opportunity to strike. If he only got one chance at this, he needed to get it right.

When he heard her grunt of exertion as she picked up the human Mitch lunged. Kate dropped the human and leapt back, barely snapping the bars closed in time to protect her from the desperate attempt at escape. She collapsed back out of reach of his outstretched arm, narrowly avoiding the claws tearing through the air where her throat had been moments prior. "Looks like you've still got some life in you, after all," she gasped. Then smirked. "Good I don't like my toys broken too early."

"I'm going to kill you," Mitch hissed, his eyes black and his fangs bared. Hardly intimidating in his weak, gaunt state. "I'll tear your throat out you psychotic fucking bitch."

"Sure, honey, keep telling yourself that. You'll have plenty of time to think up all kinds of ways to kill me while you rot down here." Kate left with an echo of laughter.

***

The first thing Stiles registered was the pounding in his skull. It made his vision swim when he opened his eyes to stare at the ceiling. Or, no, that was him, writhing on the ground. He stilled and reached out, trying to gain his bearings. _Where am I? _

Lying on the ground. That much was obvious. Stiles could feel the cold cement beneath, leaching the heat out of his bod, making his bones ached. He dragged himself onto his knees and crawled forward, sweeping his hands in front of himself, unable to see in the dark. After a few steps he hit a wall. Stiles carefully stood, keeping on hand on the wall so he didn't lose himself. With the other he felt his skull where the woman had bashed him over the head—he had a swollen, aching knot at the back of his head, the source of his concussion. _Great. _

Stiles braced himself on the wall and walked forward, counting his steps until he hit a corner, continuing down two more walls. The fourth had a door, barred like a cage. "_Fuck._" Stiles whipped around when he heard movement behind him.

"Hello?' he asked, terror gripping his heart. There was no answer, but Stiles was certain he heard the rustle of fabric…. He wrapped his hand around one of the bars—it was grounding, having something to hold onto, even if it was the source of his entrapment—and exhaled. "It was probably nothing. Just your imagination, Stiles."

"No, it wasn't," a low voice rasped. Stiles _screamed—_

***

The human was blind in the darkness, but Mitch's eyes were designed to let in as much light as possible. Coupled with his echolocation, he could see perfectly in the dark. He watched the human stumble blindly around the room, trying to see how but it was—12'7.25" by 11'3.5", Mitch measured it by hand when he had nothing else to do but wait to lose his mind—and kept out of the way as he carefully slid along each wall. When the human got close enough to touch Mitch moved to the farthest wall, opposite the door.

He thought about leaving the human alone in the dark. It was easy for a vampire to move in silence—the human would never have to know he was there. What was worse, being confined to darkness, or knowing you were trapped with a monster?

Mitch said nothing when the human called out. Then a memory occurred to him; so long ago, decades, trapped in a cage just like this. He would have given anything just for someone to _talk _to. Welcomed the torture by his captors because at least it meant an end to the total sensory deprivation. Humans didn't respond well to a lack of stimulation.

"Just your imagination, Stiles."

"No, it wasn't." It was gratifying to watch the human scream and cower, frantically looking at nothing, holding onto the bars in the door like they were a safe haven.

"Who are you?" Stiles asked. Mitch could smell his fear, hear his blood. _At least I'm still frightening to some. _Once, before becoming a vampire, the mere mention of his name was enough to have the worst members of humanity cowering in fear. Now, he was _leashed. _

"Mitch," he answered plainly. There was no reason to scare the human more than he already was. It took him longer than it should to remember basic manners, but in his defense, he's been trapped in solitude for months. And he never had much in the way of manners to begin with. "Are you okay?"

"No! I'm really fucking not! What the hell is happening here, where am I? Where are _you_?"

"Eleven feet in front of you."

"How do you know where I am?"

"I can see you."

"_How?_"

"I've been here a long time. Your eyes will adjust to the darkness." A white lie, but believable. Stiles may eventually be able to make out some shapes; his brain would learn to supplement sound for vision. "I don't know where we are, but the woman that kidnapped you, her name is Kate."

"How do you know?" Stiles asked. _Because I made the grave mistake of sleeping with her, _Mitch thought, but didn't voice it.

"She likes to talk. How old are you; it's Stiles, right?"

"Yeah… I'm uh, I'm seventeen."

"That means you're still in school, right?"

"Yeah." Stiles perked up somewhat. "My dad will know I'm missing as soon as he comes home in the morning. He'll find me," Stiles said fiercely. Mitch believed Stiles' father would try. He just didn't think the man would succeed.

***

Kate came back presumably the next day and flicked on the light. A single bare bulb encased within a metal cage to protect it. Mitch hated that fucking light.

"He's still alive." She sounded disappointed. "Aren't you hungry, pet?"

"Go to hell," Mitch snarled. He didn't have the energy to put on the show she was looking for, not when every ounce of his strength had to go towards not ripping Stiles' throat out. Kate scoffed and opened up a hatch at the bottom of the door—Mitch never noticed that before—and kicked through a sandwich and bottle of water for Stiles. She must have better things to do because she flicked off the light and left.

"What was that about?" Stiles asked warily.

"Who knows? She's a fucking psychopath," Mitch deflected. "You should eat that."

"What if it's poisoned?"

"It's not."

"How can you be sure, though?"

"If she wanted you dead, she would have killed you already. Trust me, poison isn't her MO."

"That… is not reassuring." Mitch shrugged, even though he knew Stiles couldn't see it. "What about you?"

"I'm fine," Mitch lied. While he could eat like a human, in the state he was in—no healthy blood left in his body for it to properly function like a human—it would only make him sick. "Just eat the sandwich, you need to keep your strength up."

***

Every day Kate came back with a sandwich and a bottle of water for Stiles, just enough to keep him alive. Finally, after what had to be close to two weeks, she dragged Stiles kicking and screaming by his hair out of the cell. Mitch had no idea where she was taking him, or what she was going to do to him. Maybe he should have just killed the kid to spare him whatever torment she had planned for him.

***

"I'm disappointed in you, cutie pie."

"What are you going to do to me?"

"My pet was supposed to eat you up." She grinned, and Stiles really hated the way she looked at him. "I guess you're just not his type. Too skinny, maybe, not enough meat on your bones. I should've gotten someone a little _juicier."_

Tears pricked Stiles' eyes, shame heating his cheeks. So, what, he wasn't fucking attractive enough for her? "What do you _want _from me?"

"I think I'm gonna give you a makeover, make you nice and tasty. Then Mitch won't be able to resist you when I give you back." Stiles didn't know what that meant, but he knew it was nothing good. He struggled at his restraints, pulling desperately, but there was nowhere for him to go. Kate had him expertly tied down to the chair. She flicked open the pocket knife she's been playing with and finally got up, walking around the table to him.

"No, no, please!"

"Don't worry, sweetheart, I'm not the one that's going to kill you. Your little friend, however…" Stiles screamed when Kate dug the knife into his chest and carved his skin.

***

“It’s cute that you think he won’t hurt you, sweetheart. But you? You’re just a snack pack for him, and I can’t _wait_ to watch him tear your throat out.” Kate shoved him through the door and slammed it shut behind him.

The cell was choked with perfect silence.

Stiles stayed where he was on his knees, looking down at his hands. He could only hear his own ragged breaths. Mitch was completely, utterly silent.

“Mitch?” Stiles whispered. He thought he heard the scrape of nails over concrete, somewhere to his left. He reached out. “Mitch?”

“Stay away from me,” he hissed. Fabric rustling as he scrambled back from Stiles, and he still couldn’t _see_.

The light flickered on.

Stiles screamed.

There, on the other side of the cell, the most monstrous creature Stiles had ever seen. Pale and gaunt, with sharp features and gleaming white teeth, fangs that ended in needlepoints edging over pale lips, bared in a snarl. Hollow, dead, completely _black_ eyes, like a corpse.

Stiles scrambled for the door and beat his hands against the metal, begging, “let me out! Let me out, please, I’ll do whatever you want but _please_!”

Kate laughed, relishing the fear in his eyes, the frightened tears tracking down his cheeks. He could feel her warm breath on his face, safe on the other side of the cell door. “Lights out,” she whispered.

“No, wait—!”

They were plunged into darkness. Stiles didn’t even realize he was whining a first—the ringing in his ears came from a high keen building in the back of his throat.

He was a lamb prepared for slaughter, braised in his own blood to be all the more tempting. _He’s going to eat you up, sweetheart. _Now Stiles knew what Kate had meant.

Stiles didn’t say anything, didn’t want to make himself an even bigger target. Then he remembered Mitch could see in the dark—remembered his sunken in, soulless black eyes—and knew it was pointless. He held his knees to his chest and buried his head in his arms and trembled, waiting for death.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I AM working on making this a bigger thing, but my need for validation demands I post something.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another vampire thing! This one is purely platonic, and the full version will actually be Sterek when I finally get around to writing it (hopefully tomorrow??)
> 
> TW for Implied/Referenced Child Abuse

The woman was beautiful. Unnaturally so, Stiles later came to realize. An unearthly, alluring glamor that easily drew the two boys in. Mitch was smitten as soon as he saw her, seventeen and stupid with hormones. Stiles was only twelve. 

Her name was Katrina. She was older than both of them, although Stiles didn’t know how old. Much, much older than the young appearance she wore. Before Mitch was old enough to be left alone to take care of Stiles—before their parents were killed, and he was forced into it—there was another girl that their parents paid to babysit them. A college student named Stacy. Katrina reminded him of her. She had the same long blonde hair, the same piercing green eyes. After that night, he wondered if the resemblance was a coincidence, or if it was intentional. If Katrina had seen into their memories and assumed a familiar, comforting appearance to lure them away. 

After their parents died, there was no one to take them in. Stiles—then ten years old—was at the age where he was still cute and sweet, where people still wanted him. No one wanted Mitch, fifteen years old with a rebellious, spiteful attitude. They were a package deal; you couldn’t get one without the other. Things didn’t always work out that way, though. Twice Stiles got placed without his brother, and he managed to run away both times. The second time was bad, and Mitch decided they were better off on their own than letting the state decide what happened to them. 

Katrina found them after two years on the street. By then Mitch was taking odd jobs from shady strangers willing to look past his age and pay him under the table. It wasn’t necessarily good work, but it was something. Enough to get by because it had to be. Stiles was his constant shadow, a silent companion. He knew better than to draw the attention of the kind of people Mitch worked for. 

When Katrina came around she was a godsend. Mitch certainly thought she was an angel, all that was light and beautiful and kind in the world, unknowing of the dark secret she kept. He was foolish enough to agree when she offered to let them stay with her; said she was lonely and could use the company, and had plenty of space. They could stay as long as they wanted, she said. When Stiles was older, he finally understood why Mitch did what he did. He always seemed so much older to Stiles back then, but he was still just a kid, struggling under the responsibility of trying to take care of Stiles, keep him safe. When a seemingly harmless twenty-something year old woman offered to help ease some of the burden, of course he accepted—he was run ragged and desperate for help, and could see no obvious reason to deny. 

But back then, Stiles didn’t see it that way. And Mitch was a stupid, stupid fool for agreeing. For not seeing that she wasn’t the soft rose, but the serpent hiding underneath. Because of that oversight, that willful ignorance, Stiles lost his brother. 

***

It was a week before Stiles realized something was amiss. Things seemed so calm and quiet, he had no reason to believe Katrina was a liar. There was plenty of food and they each had a warm bed, and Stiles had his  _ own room _ again. As far as Stiles was concerned, they were living in luxury. 

He couldn’t say what was off about that night. Maybe it was too quiet when he was used to the violent, ceaseless din of the city. Maybe it was the shadow he saw pass under the door long past when he should have been asleep. But there was a sense of unease knotting his stomach and keeping him awake long enough to see it. 

His second placement felt too good to be true, also. His new foster parents bought him a cake and put candles in it like it was his birthday, they gave him new clothes, and toys, and books. They were kind. And then the man came into Stiles’ room one night, and it wasn’t so good after all. 

Except this time the shadow doesn’t stop at his door. It passes by towards Mitch’s room, and Stiles listens carefully, clutching his blanket. He doesn’t  _ breathe _ , he listens so hard, can barely make out the door opening, a high-pitched creak from the bed. Then nothing. 

_ Nothing _ . 

Stiles tries, but he can’t hear a thing. There’s too much distance. He thinks that maybe if he can’t hear that means it’s okay, but then he remembers— _ be quiet Stiles, don’t make a sound. You’re so good at being quiet _ —and his heart leaps into his throat. 

Stiles doesn't know how long he stays there, paralyzed by the unknown, his mind whirling with horrible possibilities, before he finally finds his courage. He quietly climbs from his bed, stumbling on shaking legs, his only thought on protecting his brother. Mitch is all he has left.

He creeps down the hall and presses his ear against Mitch’s door, and can barely make out the sound of labored breathing, like he’s hurt. Maybe Mitch saying Katrina’s name, proof he’s not alone. Stiles slowly presses down the handle and pushes open the door. 

Katrina is on top of Mitch on the bed. His brother’s eyes are closed and one of his hands is tangled in her hair like he’s trying to pull her away, but doesn’t have the strength. He’s barely recovered from his sickness. His face is so  _ pale _ . Stiles can’t see Katrina’s where it’s buried against his neck. 

By chance Mitch opens his eyes, hazy and unseeing in the darkness. He’d backlit by the moon and it only enhances his pallor. The last time Stiles saw someone look like that was his mom, as she bled out in the accident, trapped in their car. Only Stiles was small enough to get free of the wreckage, crying as he held her hand through a broken window, and felt it when the life left her body. 

“Mitch?” Stiles asks his voice barely above a whisper, his eyes stinging with tears just like that night. 

Before Mitch can say anything Katrina jerks up, and her mouth is black with blood, crimson-stained teeth edging over her lower lip. Stiles screamed and reared back, falling, trying to crawl into the safety of the hall when she starts towards him. He can't tear his eyes away from her monstrous face. Can't quite reconcile that this is  _ real,  _ watching it all from somewhere far away. 

“Stiles, honey, it’s okay,” she soothes, hastily wiping the blood off her mouth with the back of her hand and only succeeded in streaking it across her jaw. Her eyes are so dark, shadows gathering in hollow sockets, doing away with her unnatural allure. No longer is she the beautiful, sweet woman he’s grown accustomed to. 

“Stay away from me! Mitch!  _ Mitch _ !” 

“Stiles, don’t—” Mitch stumbles to his feet and almost immediately collapses. He’s so weak from being sick for so long, the blood loss is too much for him. Stiles cries out in anguish as he falls. Stiles knows by the limp, horrible way he’s lying, one hand outstretched towards Stiles—just like dad—that he’s dead. There’s nothing he can do to get to his brother with that  _ thing _ in between them. When Katrina goes back for Mitch, he hates himself for it but he runs, escapes while Katrina’s back is turned. He runs so that he doesn’t have to watch the blood flow from Mitch’s neck and pool on the ground around him, so he doesn’t have to see Katrina go back for more, so she doesn’t have a chance to kill him too. 

Stiles runs out onto the street barefoot, wearing nothing but pajamas to ward off the November cold. The tears freeze on his face as he runs with no destination in mind, runs for what feels like forever, just knowing that he needs to get  _ away _ . The streets have been his home for years; the only safety available to him now is getting lost. 

Stiles disappears down a system of back alleys, and it’s only once he’s safely hidden amongst the trash that he allows himself to curl up and weep for his brother. His body aches with the grief he’s too young to handle and it tears through him with wracking sobs he can feel in his bones, screaming cries he has to bury in his arms.  _ I’m so sorry, Mitch.  _


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been obsessed with The Magnus Archives for the last month, and anyone who follows me on tumblr maaay have noticed a few TMA au stitch posts. This is inspired the Lonely!Stiles/Hunt!Mitch post. I say "inspired" bc it kind of got away from me lol this was supposed to be much more fun and light-hearted than it turned out. I'm not sure I like it as a first meeting for them, but it was fun to do! I really need to get back into writing so I can finish some damn wips, I stg

Mitch was fifteen miles outside of town, trees soaring past in a blur as he raced towards the heart of the forest. His blood burned with the need to chase, but there was no prey for him to pursue. No one for him to hunt. No Hunt to make his blood rush, forcing him to find other means. In the middle of the week there were few options in the local nightclubs, so Mitch took to the forest. It didn’t matter than running rarely eased his restlessness, not even when he ran himself into the ground and finally collapsed from exhaustion. 

Two hours into his run—a harsh pace that he never once let up, chasing something that wasn’t there—he felt the distinct sensation of being watched. Not Watched, but there were definite eyes on him, watching from the trees. Something was trying to hunt  _ him.  _

“You’re so perfectly alone,” a disembodied voice said, stopping Mitch in his tracks. He whipped around, breathing hard, scanning the trees for the source of the voice. It echoed disorientingly. “No friends, no family. No one to care if you ever leave this woods again.” 

“Where are you,” Mitch snarled, his eyes turning a reptilian yellow, his pupils slitted, his senses heightened. Pervasive mist swirled around his legs in a cool caress, seeping along the ground. Inevitable. The temperature dropped but Mitch hardly felt it through the heat of his blood. 

“We’re not so different, you and I,” came the echoing, distant voice from behind. When Mitch turned again there was no one there. “Hunters are so  _ lonely.  _ You cut yourself off from everyone, any connection that may keep you anchored. You’re  _ adrift.  _ Just like me.” 

Mitch followed the mist, prowling through it even as it thickened, obscuring his vision, dampening his senses. It was sticky against his skin like the cold sweat after a nightmare, like waking up alone with no one to turn to for comfort. 

The swirling pattern of an exhale behind the mist was all Mitch needed to find his prey, reaching out and throwing him back into a tree, pinning him there with an inhuman snarl. Faded, hazy brown eyes looked back at him, distant, like he was looking through water. 

“Of course you have no one,” the stranger whispered. “She’s dead. You didn’t kill her, but knowing that doesn’t help, does it? Survivor’s guilt is a hell of a thing.” 

“Shut up,” Mitch snarled. When he raked his hand through the space the stranger’s throat had occupied, he dissipated into mist before Mitch’s claws could make contact. Instead they carved through the roughened tree bark.

“Self-imposed isolation is so much more potent than any other kind, don’t you think? You  _ could  _ reach out. Your mother and father are dead, but your brother is still alive. He misses you, you know. What’s it been, three years since you last saw each other? Or maybe he’s moved on, it’s hardly like he checks in anymore. Not like he used to.” 

“Stop it!”

“Do you feel it?” the stranger asked, and without clarification, Mitch knew exactly what he was talking about. It was obvious once he looked; somehow, that pervasive cold seeped into him, chilled his blood and wrapped around his heart and filled his lungs with salt-water mist. It was lethargic and slow, his heart barely beating under its weight. 

_ No one to care if he ever left these woods. No one to look for him if he never came back. No one to notice, because he pushed away everyone who may care.  _

“That’s it,” the stranger crooned. A cold hand brushed his face and Mitch couldn’t reach the heat of his anger, couldn’t summon the energy to fight. “It’s alright, it doesn’t have to hurt anymore. You’ve been running for so long. Stay. Rest.” 

“No.  _ No,  _ I can’t—”

“Why not? No one needs you out there,” he said gently, cutting. Mitch tried to breathe and felt like he was drowning. Felt like he wanted to drown. To lie down and  _ stop,  _ after so very many years running, chasing something forever out of reach. “ _ Stay.” _

_ “ _ I don’t belong here,” Mitch tried to protest, weak. 

“Of course you do. All the lonely, lost things belong here.”

Somewhere along the way, the forest became a beach, with dark grey sand breaking against a lighter grey horizon. White seafoam lapped at the shore, the waters a deep, slate blue. There were no birds in the sky, no ships or fish in the water, no one walking along the shoreline. Just Mitch and his translucent captor, looking at him serenely. 

Mitch was… calm. Numb. Unable to feel nothing but the unending expanse of grey beach, with too much room to breathe. 

But when in the last three years has Mitch  _ ever  _ been calm? 

The illusion broke and they were back in the forest, still filled with chilling mist. But this time Mitch wasn’t so distant that he could no longer feel his blood, the call to  _ hunt.  _ He grabbed the stranger by the throat, claws sinking into his flesh, and snarled with inhuman teeth that ached to tear out his jugular. Surprising him, the stranger smiled, as distant and serene as ever. 

“I guess not, then,” he said simply. “Maybe some other time.” He faded into mist and Mitch’s claws cut into his palms when he disappeared. The mist didn’t fade with him. Neither did the sensation of being watched. 

Mitch turned and ran, didn’t know where he was going other than he needed to get away. Escape the loneliness trapping him, suffocating him. He had a feeling he wouldn’t get a second chance. 

But he was so deep in the forest when he was taken, running without direction. Lost. Alone. Mitch had no anchor to draw him back, and just as he felt the mist swallowing him, he broke through the treeline. It burned away under the sun’s warm rays, and he could have wept from the relief. 

Mitch went to a bar and found someone to take home for the night after all, a desperate—futile—attempt to chase away the loneliness still clinging to his skin, cloying and cold. It didn’t help, sharing his bed with a stranger that would leave in the morning. Someone he would never see again, never know anything about. Someone he didn’t  _ want  _ to know about. 

All night, trying and failing to sleep, all he could think of was the strange, lonely man in the woods. 

_ Self-imposed isolation is so much more potent than any other kind, don’t you think? _


	15. Beyond Reasonable Doubt

“Of course,” Lydia said, her voice clipped like her heels over the marble floor. “I wondered who the Argents may get to represent them. I shouldn’t have been surprised it’s you.” 

“A former client referred them. Apparently, they were pleased with the results.” 

“I’m sure.”

Undeterred by Lydia’s frosty attitude towards him - nothing new there - he asked sweetly, “How have you been, Ms. Martin?”

“I’ve been constructing a case against your client that will land her in prison for the rest of her natural life, if she’s lucky,” Lydia responded with a poisonous smile.

“We’ll see.”

“Do you honestly think any judge will rule in your favor?”

“I think my chances are good, yeah.”

“She killed _eleven people_.”

“Do you have irrefutable proof?” Lydia bristled - they’ve both been over the evidence, and Kate was good. Most of it was circumstantial at best. The investigation was on going, and Lydia hoped Stiles managed to uncover more with the help of the Sheriff’s Department, but Kate was very good at covering her tracks. Mitch of course intended to do his own investigation into the situation, through more unconventional means.

Lydia changed the subject, attempting to appeal to Mitch’s - nonexistent -conscience. “How do you sleep at night?”

“On silk sheets, rolling naked in money.” Mitch grinned at the look of distaste Lydia gave him. “Really, Lydia, not all of us have the patience to work our way up to DA.”

“Or the skill,” she snapped.

“Remind me - how many of the cases you’ve lost have been to me?” Lydia was a highly skilled attorney, and rarely failed to turn a court in her favor. But of the times she did, only two of them couldn’t be attributed to Mitch.

“And how many of your clients have I landed behind bars?” By the same token, every case Mitch has lost could be cleanly laid at Lydia’s dainty feet.

“Touché,” he said amiably.

“Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a meeting with Sheriff Stilinski.” Lydia brushed past Mitch and he didn’t try to stop her, biting his tongue. He loved working in Lydia’s district - she always kept things interesting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is actually Mitch/Lydia (and later, the full fic is Sterek) in a Lawyer AU, centered around the Hale Fire Case. Because I am a MASSIVE nerd, and my parents have always told me I should become a lawyer.


	16. A Strange Convergence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was listening to the Call of Cthulu audio book at like 3am last night, mistakenly thinking it would help me sleep, and instead I wrote this. Vaguely Lovecraftian inspired AU Ft. Void Stiles (implied??), Doctor Mitch, and Weird Uncle Obsessed With The Occult Hurley. I've actually been meaning to write an AU like this for ages, and once I get my homework taken care of, I'd love to write a full story. But for now, have this almost 2k snippet.

The Journal of M. S. Rapp

Mitch walked past the alley as he had all the others, at first believing it to be empty. He would have continued on in that belief if he had no also struck a match at that very moment, to light a fresh cigarette between his lips. There, deep in the alley, he noticed a slice of pale flesh. The match burned itself down to his fingertips as he stared. Mitch dropped it to the damp ground with a hiss of pain, but his eyes never left that strange, still form. It took him longer than it should to recognize the waifish figure, iridescent moonlight catching on his slender limbs.

Deep shadows cast the alley in darkness. Mitch could hardly make out anything around the boy, that single point of light. There was nothing to see, and yet Mitch found himself stopping to watch. He leaned against the nearest wall so that he would not make too obvious a spectator, backlit by the streetlamps behind. Silver smoke filtered past his lips when he exhaled.

As Mitch watched, he noticed the oddest thing. Stiles’ shadow began to move behind him, a long, twisted thing, writhing as if in unspeakable agony. Yet the boy stood still, his face upturned in supplication. Mitch could not see his eyes, but somehow, he knew that if he could, they would be distant. Like the glass-eyed taxidermy in his uncle’s estate.

Shadows pulled away from the wall, moving with the same fluidity as the move Mitch exhaled. His eyes struggled to focus on the rippling darkness. That liquid absence of light that dew everything in; a starving, ceaseless hunger, consuming all it touched.

Mitch stood frozen with his mountain horror, watching as the shadows reached out to Stiles. It was an impossible sight, there was nothing there, nothing to cast such a sinister image, and yet it was happening right before his eyes. And undeniable, grotesque vision. Stiles’ mouth fell open in a soundless scream and Mitch was helpless to watch as they spooling darkness poured itself _into _him.

The cigarette burned to nothing between his fingers, the only measure of human time that existed in that alley, suddenly filled with the endless, eternal expanse of void.

Then, just as soon as the shadows had warped, they twisted themselves back into order. A reversal of the entropy surrounding Stiles, filling him, devouring him. Like a marionette with its strings cut the boy collapsed. His limbs fell in a loose tangle, and the spell was broken. Mitch rushed to him.

Already Mitch decided it was some kind of illusion, a trick played by his exhausted mind. Grief over his uncle’s death must have reached deeper than he realized, for his eyes to twist things into such horror. Still, he checked for a pulse, and was relieved to find it sluggishly breathing beneath Stiles’ ivory skin.

***

_November 26, 1923 _

_My nightly walks have continued to trouble me. I feel as though I am searching for something, although I do not know what that may be. I find myself walking a strangely familiar path each night, but I am certain I have never walked it before. I haven’t seen these streets since I was a boy; they are as foreign to me as the would be the crowded streets of London. _

_I feel I am not as along during this excursion as the oft-empty streets would have me believe. There is a… malevolence to the shadows. My own silhouette is alien to me. It responds to my every movement as it should, and yet it is not _me. _Perhaps it is that my shadow lags behind a second too slow; almost like it must consciously decide to copy me. _

_Sentient shadows. Not a subject I care to entertain. There is enough occupying my mind as it is. I’ll sound like Hurley before long, and I have no desire to follow his path. _

_It all comes back to pathways. Those trails we follow through life, forged for us by braver souls. Few seeks to blaze their own way. Fewer still find others to follow in their wake. _

_For some reason, my path seems to converge with Stiles’ time and again. I find myself inexplicably drawn to him. He has made several appearances of late, although I rarely confront him. Half a dozen times I’ve wanted to shake him and demand an answer: id he him following me, haunting my nights like a specter? Or do I follow him, ignorant of where he leads? Either way, I know not where we are going, only that we seem to be heading there together. _

_I am… troubled by him. _

***

“Such a strange thing.” Mitch traced his fingers over the jagged clay figure, messily sculpted and poorly finished. It was certainly done by a novice; the clay was rough and scratched, not worn smooth by practiced hands. More than that, the geometry was senseless and odd; it made his head hurt to look for too long.

“Do you like it?”

“Christ!” Mitch almost dropped the heavy figure—thought it might be better if he had, to destroy the thing before it could cause him anymore sleepless nights—as he whirled around. Standing just outside the doorway was Stiles, with his big round eyes and his lips downturned into their perpetual moue of discontentment. Mitch set the figure back on its pedestal. As soon as it clicked into place Stiles stepped forward, and Mitch was struck by the sudden impulse to retreat, keep the heavy oak desk between them. He didn’t.

“I made it.” Stiles brushed his finger down one of the arching curves. “Do you know what it is?”

“No.”

“Me neither. It came to me in a dream.” Stiles shuddered and wrapped his arms around himselves, spindly fingers covering the jut of his elbows. “Do you ever have dreams?”

“Sometimes.” Mitch didn’t tell Stiles how more and more, he featured in them. He wondered if Stiles somehow knew anyway.

“Are they good dreams?”

His mind was forced to turn to Stiles; a strange, twisting creature, writhing in his sheets. From fear or pleasure or both, Mitch could never tell. The shadows were too severe over his features to ever fully make out the expression on his face.

“Sometimes,” Mitch answered again, because some of those dreams left him to wake panting and sticky and unable to feel the shame curdling in his belly when desire still ran so hot through his veins. More than one page in his journal was taken with frantic sketches done in the middle of the night, a hollow attempt to commit to paper what Stiles looked like in his dreams. The delicate curve of his breastbone, the rapturous arch of his spine. The open, welcome line of his legs and the soft, plush shape of his lips, always bitten red. Mitch didn’t know what possessed him to immortalize his indiscretions; perhaps if he could not see Stiles in the flesh, he could at least have this crude rendering.

Stiles pulled Mitch out of his mind just as swiftly as he had dredged up those awful imaginings he kept locked away, only to be examined in the dead of night. Mitch realized he was staring too long at Stiles’ lips when he saw them curve into a small, secretive smile. A rare thing.

“My dreams are nightmares,” Stiles said, possible—probably—for the second or third time. “They’re filled with monstrous creatures. They haunt me.” As he spoke Stiles approached, gliding over the floor, until they were almost chest to chest. Only the pedestal crowned with the crude statuette stood between them, little enough distance that Mitch could feel Stiles’ breath ghost against his jaw, second after it left his lungs. Strangely cold. Maybe he should have put the desk between them after all. “Your uncle was very interested in my dreams. He has me tell him about each one, recording them into his little wax cylinders, taking his notes. My draws as well, and my sculptures. Are you interested in them, too, doctor?”

“Yes,” Mitch breathed. There was nothing else for him to say. Anything else would stop Stiles from speaking to him, break this strangely intimate moment between them.

“Maybe I’ll tell you of them, then. Mr. Hurley always wanted to hear about them straight away. While they were fresh in my mind, he said. He even let me stay here for a time, while he conducted his research, holding vigil outside my bedroom at night.” Stiles leaned in a little closer and looked up through his long eyelashes, moistened his lips with his tongue. “Truth be told, I think he would watch me as I slept. Only to note down anything I said, of course. Things I wouldn’t remember come morning. I think that’s would he would have said if I ever caught him.”

“If you thought he was watching you, why did you let him?”

“I liked it,” Stiles said simply. Mischief sparked in his golden eyes, at offs with his deceptive, innocent demeanor. “Knowing he was watching over me made me feel safe. I haven’t been able to sleep since he died; I still feel like something is _watching _me. Do you think you could help me, doctor?”

Mitch stumbled over nothing. Mistakenly, he tried to catch himself on the thin pedestal and instead overbalanced it. Stiles sculpture crashed onto the ground and broke; too blunt and heavy to _shatter, _although the delicate, wispy pieces on the edges splintered away. Thich crevasses cleaved apart the heavy core.

“_Shit, _I’m sorry.” Mitch leant down to pick up the pieces, but the damage was done.

“it’s alright.” Stiles tilted his head consideringly. “Looks better this way. More right.” Stiles left without another word, leaving Mitch to stare after him in bewilderment.

“What the hell was that?” Mitch asked the now-empty room. He picked up the largest pieces of the statuette and tried to fit them together again, to see if they could be salvaged. Mitch couldn’t figure out how to align the pieces. Somehow, the hardened clay was distinctly twisted into a new shape, no longer fitting against itself.

Mitch resolved to throw it away and think of it no more.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fuck it, more Southern Gothic! It's not always cryptids and nightmares, sometimes Mitch and Stiles get to have a little fun together.

Stiles ventured out onto the porch to find Mitch standing out in the field with a ‘Y’ shaped piece of metal in his hands. “What’re you doing?” Stiles called.

“Water witching.” Mitch half-turned, just enough to see Stiles over his shoulder. He leveled Stiles with a wry grin like he knew how he looked. “Ever tried it?”

“No.” Mitch beckoned him and Stiles eagerly bounded over. Ever since seeing _Coraline _as a kid Stiles has wanted to try, but he’d never made a successful attempt. Mitch looked so confident standing there like a lunatic that Stiles couldn’t help but believe he may actually be able to do it. Mitch handed him the dowsing rod.

“Hold this and see if it pulls. You’ll feel it,” Mitch said, stepping back out of the way.

“Does this actually work?”

“Find out.” The ends of the fork were bent down, giving Stiles something to hold on to while the dowsing rod had room to swivel. When Stiles didn’t feel anything after a full minute, he picked a direction and started walking, waving the rod around and feeling like a fool. Mitch followed sedately, offering no commentary on the spectacle Stiles was making of himself.

“You’re just messing with me,” Stiles finally said, dropping his arms in defeat. They were sore from holding up the heavy rod. He turned to face Mitch with a frustrated scowl and cheeks flushed from the heat—and embarrassment at being so easily played.

Strangely, Mitch didn’t have the expression Stiles would expect if he really was playing a mean prank. There was no mocking smile or poorly stifled laugh. If anything, Mitch looked pensive.

“You so sure about that?” he asked. There was something infuriating about his knowing smirk. _Stiles, _was the one supposed to know everything. “You’re not gonna force it. Relax. Close your eyes. Feel the currents in the ground.”

Reluctantly, Stiles did as he was told. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. When he exhaled, his lifted his aching arms in front of him. Mitch put a guiding hand on Stiles’ right shoulder, turning him several degrees to his left. Confident that Mitch wouldn’t let him get hurt, Stiles kept his eyes closed and started walking in the new direction.

After ten minutes Stiles’ eyes opened and he gasped, “I can feel it.” A wobbling tug on the dowsing rod, so faint he would have dismissed it as his own movement if he wasn’t focusing so carefully. Stiles veered to the left, his heart pounding. He stumbled over the rough terrain—at some point during the walk the fields gave way to woods—reckless in his excitement.

The house was no longer in sight when the rod abruptly dipped down, sticking like a grave marker in the ground. Stiles dropped to his knees in front of it, breathing hard, and pressed his palms into the damp earth.

“Is there really a well down there?”

“Looks like. You can come out and dig for it if you really want to find out.” Mitch kneeled down with Stiles and put his hand on the ground, humming thoughtfully. “’S about thirteen feet. You could get at it in a day or two.”

“There’s _no way _you can know that.”

“Prove me wrong, then.”

“Schrodinger’s well,” Stiles mumbled. He dusted his hands off on his pants. “That sounds like a lot of work.” Mitch shrugged and stood, offering his hand to Stiles.

“It’s something to do.”

“Have you ever dug a well?”

“A few. It was my aunt’s favorite punishment whenever she got tired of me mouthing off.”

“I bet that happened a lot,” Stiles teased. Mitch snorted.

“Let’s just say it’d take you a while to count all the wells out here.”

Stiles picked up the heavy dowsing rod, and together they returned to the house. The sun was setting and it was barely more than a blur on the horizon, over a mile away. If not for the flat, barren field, they would be lost to the gnarled oak trees.

With the haze of excitement gone, Stiles was suddenly eager to get back inside. The shadows were growing too long around them.


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles is kidnapped by werewolves. Mitch saves him.

The first thing Mitch notices is the change in air pressure. The deeper he walks the more humid it gets, oppressive. Suffocating. Then comes the smell, like decay. Something is rotting down here. 

Mitch clicks on his mag light and sweeps the beam of light down either side of the hallway, looking into the cells that lines it. They’re all empty.

All except the last one. 

“Oh my God.” 

Inside is a filthy, naked boy chained up by his wrists, his feet barely touching the ground. The shape he’s in turns Mitch’s stomach. Every breath would be a fight, forcing him to pull himself up on bloodied wrists to breathe. A modern-day crucifixion. Mitch thinks he’s dead until the boy struggles to lift his head.

This is not what he’s here for. If he has any sense at all he’ll walk way now and pretend he never saw anything, finish the job. This is his one chance at revenge after _months_ of work. But he can’t tear his eyes away from the boy in the cell. 

“Please,” the boy rasps. It looks like it hurts to speak. He licks his lips to try again, pleading, “Please kill me.” 

The boy would be nothing but a liability that Mitch can’t afford. It would be kinder to kill him now, end his suffering. But Mitch knows he’ll never be able to leave himself if he leaves the boy behind.

Mitch draws his pistol and fires two shots into the rusty old lock, the concussion deafening in the narrow hall. It falls useless to the ground, and the cell door groans something awful when Mitch wrenches it open. If the gunfire didn’t alert the wolves to an intruder, the harsh squeal of metal on metal certainly did.

The chains are just as old and rusty as the lock. They’re wrapped around the boy’s raw wrists, and looped over a meat hook to keep him suspended. There isn’t even a lock. His captors clearly thought him too weak to attempt an escape, and by the look of it, the sadistic bastards were right. Mitch puts his flashlight between his teeth so that he can see what he’s doing, and unwinds the chains. The boy collapses onto the filthy ground once he’s free.

There is no time for gentleness. When the boy can’t stand on his own, lying on the ground in a pile of thin, pale limbs, Mitch hauls him into his arms—feels how disturbingly little he weighs, the press of his ribs too pronounced through paper-thin skin—and takes off at a brisk jog. It’s almost impossible to see in the dark, his jolting flashlight serving more as a distraction than anything helpful, but Mitch remembers the way he came. 

The kid cries. Little pained whimpers and gasps that Mitch can barely hear past the ringing in his ears, but they cut like glass. Mitch doesn’t know if it’s from pain or relief or if he just wants to die. Doesn’t really care either, he just wants the kid to _stop_. 

“What’s your name?” Mitch asks. He has to abruptly drop the kid, holding him up with one arm around his middle and freeing the other to shoulder open the heavy door blocking their exit. 

“Wan’ my dad,” the kid slurs, listing into Mitch. 

“Hey, kid.” Mitch shakes him, cognizant of the blood seeping into his shirt everywhere he comes into contact with the boy’s back. There are claw marks raked down his back, the wounds reopened and leaking serous fluid from being jostled. He whimpers. “What’s your name? Where are you from?” 

“Stiles,” the kid groans, and promptly loses consciousness.

Behind them Mitch can hear the thudding footfalls of the wolves catching up. He throws Stiles over his shoulder and breaks into the fresh night air in a dead run. An apt comparison for this suicide mission of a rescue attempt.

***

They get out. Just barely. It’s bloody and brutal and Mitch ruined his one chance at retribution for a kid he doesn’t know—god knows when he’d ever get another shot—but they make it. Mitch knows the kid needs a hospital, but he’s not stupid enough to think the nearest one in town will be in any way safe with bloodthirsty wolves on their tail. 

They drive for an hour before Mitch finds an empty rest stop to turn out on, and does what he can with the supplies he’s got. Mostly that means getting the kid’s wounds as close to clean as he can with bottles of water, and iodine, taping gauze over what’s still open and weeping, and hoping for the best. Mitch lays Stiles out in the backseat with a jacket folded under his head as a makeshift pillow, and throws a blanket over him. If he was going to go into shock it probably would’ve happened already, but Mitch doesn’t want to take any chances. Besides, if the kid wakes up, he’ll probably be grateful to have something to cover himself with.

After, Mitch takes the kid to a hospital a few towns over. Stiles spends the whole drive unconscious in the back seat. Thank _fuck_ the cop that stopped beside them at a red light didn’t notice anything was amiss. One of the main reasons Mitch prefers black clothes and tinted windows; they conceal quite a bit.

Once at the hospital Stiles is whisked away into surgery and Mitch is left in the waiting room, covered in blood and dirt and sweat and not altogether sure why he’s staying. He calls Braeden. 

“How’d it go?” she answers on the second ring. 

“Like shit.” 

“Did you at least get three you were after?” 

“No, I blew it.” 

“That doesn’t sound like you.” Mitch laughs with bitter frustration because no, it really doesn’t. 

“I found this kid chained up in the basement, looked like he’d been tortured,” Mitch rakes a hand through is gory hair. God, he needs a shower. “I couldn’t leave him.” 

“Do you know him?” 

“No. Said his name was Stiles, though. I haven’t had a chance to find anything on him yet.” Not that he thinks he’ll be able to find anything. Stiles doesn’t sound like a real name. At least it didn’t. Right up until Braeden gasps with something akin to horrified recognition. 

“Oh god. I’m going to send you something.” Several seconds later Mitch’s phone pings with a text. It’s a picture of several teenagers, two boys and three girls. The boy on the left was cleaner, healthier, almost unrecognizable from the pitiful form Mitch found tonight.

“That’s him,” Mitch confirms. 

“I didn’t know he was missing. I need to call his father. Where are you?”

***

Braeden presumably notifies Stiles’ father, and Mitch is still with him in the hospital when John Stilinski shows up hours later. He hasn’t left Stiles’ side since they moved him to the ICU out of some sense of moral duty. It doesn’t seem right to leave the poor kid alone.

Mitch entertains himself by flipping through a stack of magazines provided. They’re mind numbing, but serve as a welcome distraction from the abused, unconscious form to his right. The only sound in the room is the steady beep of the EKG, the only outward evidence that Stiles is still alive. His chest barely rises with each breath.

It’s awkward when he meets John. He rises to greet the broken man, looking haggard and on the brink of tears, his eyes red-rimmed and swollen. Or maybe he already got his crying out of the way after Braeden called him.

“What happened?” is the first thing John asks. Mitch expected John to want to know who he was. Braeden must have put in a good word for him. “How’d you find him?”

“Dunno,” Mitch answers honestly. “Right place, right time, I guess.” He’s not going to claim he was looking for Stiles, that he saved him because it was the right thing to do, because he didn’t. The kid just got lucky and struck a chord with him. By the same token, Mitch isn’t going to tell John he almost left his son behind. There’s no reason to tell the man that he was a split-second decision from never seeing his son again.

Mitch carefully skirts around John in case he tries to go in for a hug; relief can make people reach out to whoever’s closest, and Mitch wouldn’t feel comfortable accepting his gratitude. John all but collapses into the now vacant chair, and doesn’t notice when Mitch quietly leaves.

***

Mitch finds the cheapest hotel in town and finally showers. He did what he could to scrub off the dirt and blood in the bathroom sink at the hospital, but his skin’s been itching with grit since he got Stiles out of that compound. After the shower he changes into clean clothes, stuffs the old ones in a plastic bag to burn later, and passes out on the single, uncomfortable bed. He sleeps for eleven hours straight and dreams of nothing.

When Mitch wakes up in the morning, he thinks of leaving. There’s nothing tying him to the town. He needs to get on the road, track down the pack again before they can get too far away, before his prey slips through his fingers yet again. He doesn’t want the last years’ worth of waiting and tracking their movements to go to waste, hoping in vain that he didn’t completely throw away his one chance to save a stranger.

Mitch drives to the hospital instead.

The nurse at the circulation desk recognizes him from yesterday, and frowns when, after asking about Stiles’ condition, he refuses to see him. He just wants to make sure the kid is okay so that he can close this particularly frustrating chapter in his life and move on. No further contact than that is necessary.

Unfortunately, Mitch doesn’t get to make the clean getaway he was hoping for. John happens to be passing by with a fresh cup of shitty hospital coffee, and an armful of snacks from a vending machine.

_Damn, _Mitch thinks a second before John spots him and heads over.

“Hey,” John greets. He looks calmer. Better, now that he knows Stiles will make a full recovery. “I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name last night.”

“I didn’t give it.” Rather than taking the dismissal for what it is, John stands his ground, looking at Mitch with steady patience. He sighs and says, “It’s Mitch.”

“Thank you, Mitch. What you did—there aren’t words to express how grateful I am.”

Mitch shifted uncomfortably, trying not to grimace in the face of John’s genuine gratitude. He deflects, asking, “How’s he doing?”

“Still kicking. Us Stilinski’s are strong.” There’s a tenseness to his eyes that would have belied that comment on anyone else. But John is standing strong, and Mitch can see the steel at his core. Now that he knows Stiles will get to come home safe, the man could probably face anything.

Mitch doesn’t know the full scope of what happened to Stiles, but he can extrapolate based on the state of his body, and the conditions he was being kept in. Not to mention Mitch knows that pack’s history. The kid has to be tough to have survived as long as he did. Going from the bright-eyed teenager in the picture Braeden sent him, to the thin shadow lying in bed now, wouldn’t have been a fast process.

“He’s not awake yet, but the nurses tell me he should be soon, if you want to see him,” John offers.

Mitch doesn’t. “Sure.”

He follows John to Stiles’ room. Once the door closes behind them, he realizes it was only a ruse. John drops the snacks on the bedside table for Stiles, sets aside his coffee, and levels Mitch with those hard, steel blue eyes.

“How much do you know?” he asks seriously. Mitch side-eyes him, measuring John to determine how much _he _knows. He apparently knows Braeden—enough for her to be familiar with Stiles, to have John’s number—but that doesn’t mean anything.

“That’s depends,” Mitch says slowly. John gives him a wry smile.

“My son is involved with the kinds of things that give a father nightmares,” he says, confirming that they’re on the same page. “Braeden says I can trust you. I just want to know what happened to my boy.”

“With respect, sir, I don’t think you do.” John has the privilege of only seeing the clean and tidy aftermath in the sterility of the hospital. He knows Stiles will heal. When Mitch found him in that filthy cell, he was less than human, and a mercy killing would have been kinder than trying to save him. But John doesn’t need to know that. He sure as hell doesn’t need to know every gruesome detail of what was done to Stiles. Mitch is glad _he _doesn’t.

“What were you doing there, when you found him?”

“Hunting. I found Stiles in a werewolves’ den; apparently they have a pattern.” Katrina, Stiles, and god knows how many other nameless victims they’ve taken.

“Can I trust you?”

“Does it matter? I’m not sticking around.”

“I suppose it doesn’t.” John sighs, looking suddenly so old and weary. “They’re transferring Stiles back home as soon as he wakes up. Lucky you caught us when you did.”

“Yeah,” Mitch hollowly agrees. _Lucky_. What an awful word for the situation.

John doesn’t say anything after that. Mitch makes himself scarce before he had to look into Stiles’ pain-filled amber eyes again.

***

It’s almost two months before Mitch hears from either Stilinski’s again. He gets a text from Braeden simply saying “sorry,” minutes before his phone rings with an unknown number. Mitch has a feeling he knows who it is before he answers.

“Hello?”

“Mitch, it’s John. Stiles’ father.”

“What can I do for you, sir?”

“Are you anywhere near Beacon Hills, California?”

Mitch frowns. “Not really.” He’s pretty fucking far from California as a whole, actually. He just got home to Virginia a few days ago, after weeks of fruitless hunting. Saving Stiles really fucked him over in the end; the pack he’s after aren’t going to make it easy for him to get that close again. “What’s going on?”

“It’s Stiles.” A dozen different things cross Mitch’s mind at those two simple words; is Stiles missing again? Was he killed? Kidnapped? Did he try to kill _himself?_

Against his better judgement, Mitch offers, “I can be there in a few days.”

“Thank you.” The relief in John’s tone is palpable, and Mitch knows he made the right decision. John called him at 11am—Mitch is on the road to California by noon.

***

“He needs someone to talk to,” John says by way of greeting. Mitch didn’t know what to expect when he knocked on the door, but it certainly wasn’t _that. _“He’s not talking to me, or his friends, and refuses to see a therapist. He said he’ll only talk to you.” Mitch’s has no idea how he must look, but John grimaces and scratches the back of his neck. “I know. But I don’t know how else to help him. So, if there’s anything, _anything _you can do, or say to him—”

“I don’t think I’m the best person for this, Sheriff.” In fact, Mitch is pretty sure he’s the _worst _person for Stiles to talk to. He isn’t sympathetic, or kind, or particularly caring. He isn’t tactful. He should probably stay as far away from Stiles as he can just so that he doesn’t make anything _worse_.

“There’s no one else,” John says gravely.

Well.

Fuck.

Mitch sighs and asks, “Where is he?”

***

John directs Mitch to the kitchen, gets him a glass of water, and goes upstairs to find Stiles. After, he waits in the living room, giving them a semblance of privacy. Mitch doesn’t blame him for hovering, keeping them both where John can see them; Mitch may have saved Stiles’ life, but he’s still an unknown entity. Given the circumstances Mitch doubts John is willing to leave Stiles alone with anyone.

The kid looks… not good, but maybe better. Although anything is an improvement on the way Mitch found him. He’s clearly exhausted, with dark bruises under his eyes and a defeated slump to his shoulders. He keeps his arms tightly crossed or fiddles with his sleeves or bites his nails. Every aspect of him from his nervous fidgeting to his refusal to maintain eye contact screams _prey, _and Mitch isn’t even a werewolf.

John told him Stiles wanted to talk to him, so Mitch leans against the counter and waits for Stiles to talk.

And waits.

And waits.

Stiles casts skittish glances in Mitch’s direction then looks away when he sees Mitch already watching him, faint color dusting his cheeks. Mitch looks heavenward as he realizes he’s going to have to start this conversation if he wants it to get anywhere.

“How are you?” he asks, feigning polite manners. That’s what you’re supposed to ask after something horrible happens, right? That’s what his friends kept asking him, after Katrina was murdered.

“Fine,” Stiles says. His voice is different than Mitch remembers. Scratchy and rough, and deeper than he expected. He doesn’t follow up with anything else, and Mitch thinks he should have brought pliers if Stiles is going to make him pull teeth like this.

“Your dad says you wanted to talk to me.”

“Yeah.”

“… Are you going to?”

“Dunno.”

_Two syllables, that’s progress, _Mitch thinks, rolling his eyes. But fine, he’s content to wait Stiles out. He was brought here to listen, not talk, after all.

After several minutes—excruciating for Stiles, by the looks of it—the kid finally gave a nervous glance in the direction of the living room. The TV was on, but the volume was low enough that John could probably hear them. Mitch has a feeling he’s the reason Stiles isn’t talking.

“Can we go for a walk?” Stiles asks.

“Sure,” Mitch replies. But because he doesn’t want John thinking he’s kidnapping Stiles, he says, “Let your dad know.”

Stiles does. John reluctantly agrees, on the condition that they’ll be back before sundown.

***

The house backs up to woods consisting mostly of scraggly valley oaks. It’s nothing like the verdant fields and forests Mitch is used to back home, but it is beautiful in its own way. The leaves are just staring to turn as summer tapers off into fall, the air getting cooler.

“I told my dad I’d talk to you,” Stiles says. He looks over his shoulder to make sure the house is out of sight, like he can still feel his dad’s eyes on his back.

Mitch tells Stiles exactly what he told John. “I’m not a good person to talk to, Stiles, not for this.” Mitch doesn’t know how to help him.

“I don’t want to talk.” Stiles stops walking. Mitch does as well, turning to face Stiles, just curious enough to hear him out. Stiles finally looks up from the ground, his amber eyes full of pain, anger, and desperation; a combination Mitch is intimately familiar with. “I want you to teach me to fight.”

And that… That’s definitely something Mitch can do.

“Okay.” Stiles gives him a trembling, watery smile, and they keep walking through the trees, not talking. Mitch is more comfortable in the silence and Stiles looks like a weight has been lifted off his shoulders, standing taller than Mitch has seen since he arrived.

It feels like hours before they finally return to the house, just before sunset. John is waiting on the back porch with his arms crossed; Stiles slinks inside like he expects to get in trouble. By the way John looks after him with a pinched expression, Mitch would bet John wouldn’t scold Stiles even if he didn’t come back until midnight.

John asks him to stay for dinner but Mitch declines. Back in his hotel room, he starts looking for an apartment in town. Apparently he’s staying a while.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've had this little thing tucked away in a notebook forever, and figured it was probably time to post! No idea when the full thing will ever get written, but I am,,, slowly,,,, working on it,... I'm trying not to overthink this fic, so maybe soon? God, what I wouldn't give to actually finish a WIP this month.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is a test post, I downloaded my blog but it's all in HTML format, so I'm trying to see if posting it to ao3 will clear it up to normal text

Mitch is in a band, and he’s the brooding, mysterious bassist that everyone wants to Know About, but boy is locked up tighter than Fort Knox; he doesn’t tell anybody anything about anything, which only makes him _more_ mysterious. The rumor mill is coming up with all kinds of theories from him being an undercover hitman using the bands international tour as a cover, to tragically losing the love of his life in some traumatic way and that’s why he plays everything close to his chest. But really, there’s nothing all that mysterious about him. He’s just a very private guy from Virginia that wants to make music he loves, and just tries to ignore everything else.

Stiles is a groupie Mitch takes back to the hotel one night, and normally he doesn’t sleep with fans—god help him after the one time he did, the girl not-so-stealthily tried to record a fucking _sextape_—but there’s something about Stiles that makes him break his one rule, and by the end of the night he is _very_ glad he did.

Despite Stiles being _really into_ the band, he actually doesn’t freak out about anything. He treats Mitch like any other guy, lets him feel _normal_ for once. So, Mitch decides to see him again, keeps in contact with him, relieved when Stiles doesn’t immediately take to twitter with his weekend’s activities.

The rest of the band teases the hell out of Mitch for the rest of the tour, because he is _smitten_. When they aren’t doing Official Tour Activities, he’s always on his phone and smiling like an idiot, texting Stiles.

Meanwhile back in small town California, Stiles is freaking out, but that’s just because _wow an attractive person is interested him??_ more than that, _wow an attractive and FAMOUS person is into him!!_

And like okay, he’s grown into himself since starting college, he’s Confident now, has had some partners here and there. But there is still some of that residual self-deprecation and insecurity so he’s amazed that Mitch actually? wants to keep talking?? to him??? Everyone he knows keeps pestering him about who this new person is that has him acting like a fool, walking into poles because he was too busy texting and oversleeping before classes because he was skyping Mitch all night. (times zones are a bitch, he soon learns) and Stiles always tries (and fails) to brush them off.

It makes him a liiitle sad that he can’t show off his boyfriend to everyone, but he doesn’t want Mitch to have to deal with the fallout when word inevitably gets out, so he’s content keeping it a secret, a little thing that’s just for them.

_But then._

After a few months of mostly-long-distance dating and occasionally meeting up when the tour ends, Stiles gets a letter. Inside is tickets for a plane and a concert. Stiles immediately calls Mitch because hey what’s up?? Mitch says happy birthday. Stiles says it’s not his birthday for another 5 months. Mitch already knows this. So again, what gives? Mitch vaguely tells him he’s got a surprise for him and Stiles is distracted for the next week wondering what Mitch is up to.

He almost immediately rules out Mitch making some big announcement about their relationship, because that’s just not something he’ll _ever_ do, Stiles is certain. It’s also clearly more than just a sweet gesture, the guy bought him a _plane ticket_, and the concert ticket puts him right up by the center stage. Like, Mitch just dropped easily over $1k on him if not more; that’s not the kind of thing you do for someone you’ve been dating for like 7 months, most of that via texts and calls. _So what is he up to?_

Stiles finds out the day of the concert. He was kind of hoping for a chance to see Mitch beforehand, but of course there’s all kinds of behind the scenes stuff he’s gotta take care of. Stiles is a little disappointed but not surprised. The band gets up and plays, going through their set. Mitch smiles a bit when he finds Stiles in the crowd, and Stiles is watching him like a hawk, waiting to see what he’s gonna do. So far nothing seems amiss, it’s just the same as the last time he saw them perform.

At the beginning of the concert, the singer slyly announced that the fans are in for quite a surprise at the end. Stiles doesn’t find out what the surprise is until the last song of the set.

Once the band is seemingly finished playing everyone starts talking amongst themselves, wondering what’s going on, what they’re gonna do, when suddenly Mitch is stepping up to the front of the stage and the singer is saying his goodbyes early, swapping out with Mitch. The crowd is shocked, a chorus if murmurs as everyone is wondering what’s going on here, because Mitch _never _sings, and has been very vocal that he never will. The singer said he wanted to do something for someone special, what does that mean?? 

The crowd is _instantly_ in an uproar, and a few people with particularly powerful lungs manage to be heard above the rest, asking who it is. Mitch laughs while he gets everything arranged to his height, says, “That would be telling, wouldn’t it?” and he’s already found Stiles in the front, sends him a sly wink when he sees the shocked-amazed-totally-about-to-cry expression he’s got on.

Mitch doesn’t name any names, but then, he doesn’t have to. His eyes are locked with Stiles’ when the song starts playing, and Stiles can’t breathe. He recognizes it, of _course_ he recognizes it, it’s his favorite song. He remembers talking to Mitch about it one of the times they were able to meet up in person, having gotten to know each other enough to shyly admit he would love to hear Mitch sing it for him. But he never in a million years would have expected something like _this._

Mitch _hates_ singing. This is a Fact that Stiles Knows. Every dick with a voice thinks they can sing, and Mitch has enough pride not to be one of them (Stiles disagrees with him, he thinks Mitch has a beautiful voice). He also has never had any desire to be the lead singer of the band, the _front man_, the one that always gets the most attention. No one cares about the bassist and Mitch is perfectly content with that. Or thought he would be, anyway. It doesn’t quite go that way for him since he’s unintentionally made himself _mysterious, _which only increases the interest in him. So suddenly get up and do it out of nowhere? Everyone is _shocked_, none more so than Stiles. He’s gonna be a Mess by the end of the song.

It’s emotional, he cries. He would be crying less if Mitch had _proposed_, this is literally a dream come true for him. He can’t even comprehend that Mitch really went and _did it_, that he even remembered that sleepy conversation from months ago.

After the show Mitch texts Stiles to come meet him and he’s off like a rocket, doesn’t even know what to say when he finally sees him. Stiles still hasn’t managed to Compose Himself, so he’s just a hot mess, but he’s still the most beautiful thing Mitch has ever seen.

Meanwhile, after the concert twitter blows up with people theorizing about who that “special someone” is. It’s the last show which Mitch planned intentionally, because it means he can immediately spend a few days with Stiles after, his bandmates jokingly telling him to go get his boy after the set is officially over and they’re all heading backstage. The singer helpfully takes Mitch’s guitar so he can go running off to find Stiles and pull him aside for a few minutes before he’s gotta do Official Band Stuff, VIP meet and greets and such.

Mitch already talked to the Security Peeps so they’ll let Stiles through, and baby is just _bawling_ when he falls into Mitch’s arms, so overcome that he can’t even string a coherent sentence together because he wants to say a dozen things at once later he’s going to be Embarrassed, turns out one of Mitch’s band mates was recording the whole thing like it was a damn engagement proposal and Mitch is just trying not to laugh, asking Stiles if he liked it, to which he responds by very eagerly nodding and kissing Mitch all over because his boyfriend is the _best boyfriend okay._  


The way Mitch finally publically comes out is Soft. It’s probably a while after the above tour, the drama has died down but people still occasionally speculate about who Mitch’s mysterious SO is. He wakes up one morning cuddling Stiles, everything is all warm and soft, sunlight streaming in through the windows. And it seems like a good idea to reach over, take his phone off the nightstand, and take a picture of him and a still peacefully sleeping Stiles. He posts it to Instagram with a simple “good morning” caption or something, then goes back to sleep for another hour or two

Tags: cookie writes, mitchs fanbase is going to EXPLODE, he just dropped a bombshell and dgaf, hes gonna wake up later a a million notifications on insta and twitter, Stiles shaking him awake bc Lydia texted him the news that he and Mitch are trending, and hes like WHAT DID YOU DO, mitch just downplays it as smrhn casual but acrually hes nervous bc oh god what if this was a mistake maybe stiles doesnt want anyone to kno, so he tries to act all casual and cool and say something smooth, Which makes Stiles are mushyh, hes just shocked bc for so long theyve kept this between them, and the small pool of friends and family who know ablut them, he knows how private mitch is and never put pressure on him to come out, bit then he DID just out of the blue, cause he LIKE likes Stiles, sweet mushy romantic bby, under all the gruff and mystique hes a a sweetiepie

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AHHH IT WORKED! Amazing

**Author's Note:**

> Holy shit y'all I cant believe?? I'm 19 now?? My bday was 4 days ago and I'm still not used to it lol


End file.
